


Strangest

by peterqpan



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Billy gets mind-slayered but he's got watchful friends, By the Power Of Hot Chocolate And Slow Friendship, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Fixing that too, Getting all the bad stuff out of the way to work toward the good stuff, Hot Chocolate, Hurt/Comfort, I'M FIXING IT, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Redemption, Slurs, They mostly just grouch around like wary cats, mentions of past pet death, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2019-09-12 16:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 96,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16876677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterqpan/pseuds/peterqpan
Summary: In the wake of the Demogorgon, Steve is absolutely normal, relaxed, and fine in every way, though he has started keeping track of actions in his life a responsible adult would probably kill him for.  One of those recurring actions is letting Billy Hargrove take over the corner of his couch.'By the time they were halfway to Steve’s house, Billy’d stopped yelling. Occasionally there’d be another kick. By the time Steve pulled in the garage, he was worried enough about exhaust fumes as a new method of involuntary manslaughter he ran right around and banged on the trunk about six times.  “Hargrove! William Whatever Hargrove, you answer me, say you’re alive,” he leaned against it, panting, feeling like he’d aged sixty years in body and vocabulary. The trunk thumped back, and Steve slid down to sit against it, reminding himself to breathe, which was apparently something he did now. He’d probably fail his remaining classes, trying to study while remembering to breathe.  How would he hold down a job? He’d show up for the interview and have to say “I’m Steve Harrington, and sometimes I forget to breathe.”'





	1. Pandora's trunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bavzel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bavzel/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains references to canon-typical violence, some slurs, and some ongoing anxiety over canon events. Details in end notes.

    It totally made sense that Max would stay with Lucas and Dustin in the blanket fort that was taking over the living area of the Byers house.  And of course Elle and Mike had laid claim to the table, where it looked like they were assembling crowns and helmets, of Will’s design. Mrs. Byers and Hopper had taken over Adulting, which was a relief, and Steve had ducked out amidst a general explosion of affectionate profanity and hair ruffling.  Through the window, he could see them tearing hot chocolate packets open--he watched Mrs. Byers teasing the kids with different mismatched mugs, and cocked his head. He didn’t really fit in there, he thought, in the blanket fort, or in the tense kitchen after the kids retreated to their realm. He definitely didn’t belong wherever Jonathan and Nancy had disappeared to.  It made sense for him to leave.

    The fog had lifted, and he willed his shoulders to unclench, all the while trying to figure out the closest place to his bed to hide his bat.  An evening project to keep him from thinking about his completely empty house. His house was also _fine,_ since he was not injured, or twelve years old, and had working light switches.   _Logically_ , it was over.  His brain just wasn’t catching up to breaking news.

    He sat more heavily against the Camaro, and it thumped back, which provoked an, again, _entirely logical_ windmilling tumble as Steve tried to keep the bat and both eyes pointed at it all the while scrambling away on three limbs.  After a moment of eye-burning terror, he recognized the pattern of sound as kicking and a lot of things Max’ brother probably didn’t need to be calling her, and he stood with a nervous spin, yanking his jacket straight.  He took a breath and held it, rolling his shoulders as he looked back at the cheerily lit Byer’s house with every light on, and back to the car bouncing with the booted feet slamming against the inside of the trunk. After several paced circuits of the car, Billy’s voice had stopped threatening.  He was laughing, slamming himself around in there, his voice getting higher. Steve scrabbled at his hair, sliding his hands down to cover his face. He really wasn’t sure any kind of logic applied to Billy Hargrove.

    If he let Billy out here, he might just run in there and Hopper would have to _shoot_ him, in front of a _ton of little shitheads_ who had barely escaped being eaten by monsters today.  If he just...drove him to his _house,_ somebody would eventually let him out, and...would Max let him out?!  Steve groaned to himself, long and slow, because if they were anything like Steve’s parents, Billy Hargrove’d be no trouble to anyone ever again, after he _died_ because nobody looked for him and _Steve Harrington knowingly left a human being in the trunk of a car._  Steve took a few deep breaths, idly walking back around to regard the open car window, and the keys on the seat.  He looked back at the house for one long hopeful moment, to see Hopper patting Joyce on the back as she threw weak punches into his shoulders, flailing before he caught her against his jacket.  They swayed there in silhouette, their shoulders shaking. Steve sighed. He kicked the trunk. The thumping stopped, then exploded again, and Steve banged again. “Listen,” he started, and the banging stopped, for long enough that Steve thought it would have been better if he had something to say.  “I didn’t leave you in there, and I can’t let you out--” the banging started again in earnest, along with a lot of “fuck”s, “bitch”s, and demands about Max--it was a good thing Hopper’d put music on in the house. “Max is fine! She’s inside--I’ll let you out _somewhere else_ , do you want me to take you home, or--” the thumping stopped.  

 “Where the _fuck_ is that _freak_ , I’ll _kill_ her, I’ll kill _you_ , you fucking--” Steve banged the trunk again, and Billy pounded back, screaming incoherently.  

 “Mrs. Byers called your house, Max is staying over!” he tried, on the off-chance this could just suddenly turn into a normal, post-monster, partially kidnapped conversation.  “I’LL TAKE YOU HOME, THEN,” he said loudly into the seam of the trunk, and Billy started struggling again.

 “Max has to go _home_ ,” the muffled, furious voice yelled back, pounding and scraping at the inside of the trunk loudly enough that he was probably injuring himself, and Steve thought it was completely unfair the death threats were still audible.  “I’ll be back here the second you open this _fucking trunk_ , Harrington, I’ll drag her back by the _fucking hair,_ I’ll tie it to my _car,_ I’ll run over her _corpse,_ I’ll drive through their _fucking_ _house--_ ”

 Peaceful options exhausted, Steve climbed in the car, leaning his face on the steering wheel as the car shook with Billy’s screaming fury, and took another deep breath.  Count on Steve Harrington to forget how to breathe, he thought, only been doing it for sixteen years. Only Steve Harrington wouldn’t have figured it out enough to let it run in the background.  By the time they were halfway to Steve’s house, Billy’d stopped yelling. Occasionally there’d be another kick. By the time Steve pulled in the garage, he was worried enough about exhaust fumes as a new method of involuntary manslaughter he ran right around and banged on the trunk about six times.  “Hargrove! William Whatever Hargrove, you answer me, say you’re alive,” he leaned against it, panting, feeling like he’d aged sixty years in body and vocabulary. The trunk thumped back, and Steve slid down to sit against it, reminding himself to breathe, which was apparently something he did now. He’d probably fail his remaining classes, trying to study while remembering to breathe.  How would he hold down a job? He’d show up for the interview and have to say “I’m Steve Harrington, and sometimes I forget to breathe.”

 The trunk was silent again, and after a while getting his lungs some breathing practice again--maybe they’d take to it--Steve thumped it again.  “We’re at my place. If I let you out and call for pizza will you please not kill anyone.” It came out tiredly even.

 “What the fuck,” came from the trunk.  “Gonna get the police here, tell ‘em I attacked you like a _psycho_ , have your mommy and daddy hold yo--”

 Steve banged the heel of his hand on the trunk again.  “Nobody else is here. Look, it’s pizza or trunk. We can figure this out in the morning.  Promise you won’t do anything to Max.”

 The banging in the trunk was taking on a rhythm, and Steve banged over it.  “Fucker. Tell me you won’t rat Max out, I’ll let you out.” Billy began screaming lyrics to his beat, and Steve groaned, letting his head thunk against the trunk, before doing the math on how long Billy’d been in there, and how little he knew about the random syringe Max had shot him up with, and he opened the trunk.  Billy’s ankles and wrists were duct-taped together, wedged in, and he swore roundly as he tried to cover his face. “Come on,” Steve sighed, standing to the side where he hoped he was out of range, but reaching over to rip the duct tape off Billy’s ankles. Billy was laughing, inexplicably, holding his arms over his face.  

 Steve sighed.  “Can you walk.”

 “Anyway you want, Princess,” Billy giggled.  

 “Come on,” Steve stood over by the door, arms crossed as he watched Billy kick a bit out the side of the trunk, then get himself rolled sideways.  He scrabbled before landing on the cement with a thud, and lay there, laughing harder. It was starting to sound growly again, and Steve rethought his impulse to offer help.  “I’m getting pepperoni. With olives.”

 When Billy finally staggered in from the garage, Steve had called for the pizza.  He turned to see the door slam shut, and Billy slide down it, gnawing at the duct tape around his wrists.  His hands were purple. Steve slammed a few kitchen drawers and stalked over with the carving knife, and Billy went very still, watching him crouch, and allowing him to pull the duct tape close enough to slide the knife up.  When he finished slicing, he tossed the knife behind him at random, grabbing one purple hand and rubbing it until it felt like a hand again and not a dissection frog. “Jesus. Max thought you were gonna kill me. And Lucas. Don’t sell her out.”

 Billy drew a shaky breath.  “And you’re not gonna tell your fancy lawyer dad I broke your face.”

 “...my dad’s not a lawyer,” Steve frowned at him.  “Hopper’d probably have locked you up.” He placed the warmed hand on Billy’s knee, and moved on to rub life back into the other one.  

 “So I behave,” Billy sneered.  “Be a good little _cunt.”_

 “Wish the fucking _pizza_ would get here,” Steve muttered, sinking down against the arm of the couch that let him see the whole living room, kitchen, and stairs.  When the pizzas arrived, his kidnapping victim shoved by him to drop into that favoured spot on the couch, and Steve sighed.

 When morning came, Steve called Max, and she agreed to Billy picking her up for a ride home.  After he left, Steve stood in his silent house, getting a little more breathing practise in as his vision started to haze around the edges, thinking of all the things Billy Hargrove _wasn’t_ , like an underground tunneler, or a demogorgon.  Billy Hargrove was from _Risky Business_ , not _Alien._  He was the sweaty “enhanced human” Khan.  He forgot about his breathing regimen entirely as he imagined Billy Hargrove in the cast from Grease, laughing ‘til he choked.  Shaking his head, he leaned back against the door, and rubbed his face. All day at school when his brain started to remind him of the previous week, he’d imagine Billy Hargrove as Danny Zuko, shimmying down his Camaro with Tommy behind him trying to carry a tune.  

 Hopper called that day, to tell him that Mr. Hargrove had called the cops the last two nights on Billy driving around at night, and they’d escorted him home from close to Steve’s house.  “In case he ran somebody over drunk. I hear stuff, kid,” the doubt came clearly through his voice. “I don’t know that he’s headin’ for you, but I don’t know that he’s _not_ ,” Steve took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, completing the line for himself--maybe keep that bat handy.  

 “Thanks, Hopper,” he tried the nickname aloud.

 Hopper huffed a laugh and hung up.

_________

 Billy Hargrove was back at Steve’s house three nights later, serenading under his window.  Steve looked longingly at his ski boots, but lifted the sash without projectiles in hand. “What the hell,” he shouted back.

 “Lemme in or I’ll tell my dad you offer rides to Max all the time!”  Billy yelled up. “Alone!”

 Steve, who had gone to an in-class-only new sleeping schedule, suddenly wished his vocal cords could produce the earsplitting rage screeches from Ghostbusters, but let his head thud against the glass in surrender before he went down and unlocked the door.  “The fuck do you want, Hargrove,” he squinted up at the moon. “Are you a werewolf, is this where I die.” Later, he’d think, that moment would have been the time to call Hopper.

 Billy shouldered him aside as he opened the door, cigarette in hand and reeking of sweat, cologne, beer, and...cooking sherry?  It was both reminiscent of and an improvement on Steve’s great-aunt, who usually smelled like baby powder, cat pee, and creme de menthe.  Steve’s lungs apparently appreciated it, because they decided to do their job for once without his constantly reminding them. He scrabbled angrily at his hair, before tromping into the kitchen to start making some Folger’s.   When the microwave beeped, he stirred in about half the remaining jar of crystals, and went to see why there was no noise happening anywhere. The couch was covered in Violent Highschool Stranger, under a blanket. Steve dropped into a chair, watching the knee-lumps and elbow-lump stay very still.  He wondered whether he’d sleep better upstairs with an unpredictable problem on the couch, and whether suggesting a movie would get his face beaten in-- with admirable calm, he thought. He also thought of not living alone--having a mom like Mrs. Byers, or a sister like Nancy, and imagined what they'd do if they came in and saw he'd brought _Billy Hargrove_ , the guy who almost beat him to death, into his house _twice_.  They'd probably murder him, he thought, and then murder Billy.  And then him again--this had to be at least a three-murder event on the Stupidity Scale.  Hopper would probably have even more to say. It was a strangely comforting thought, except they weren’t here, and Billy Hargrove was.  He didn’t seem to want to break Steve’s nose again, but then he hadn’t given that much warning the first time, either.

 Between Steve’s new not-sleeping regime and thinking about the Byer’s ceiling, map taped everywhere, Billy’s fists hitting his face, the world had just started to tilt a bit when the blanket said “Take a picture, _Princess_ , you can jack off to it at night,” and Steve lifted his coffee stew and breathed in the smell.  

 “What didja _think_ I did with that blanket,” he tried, and watched it get flung as Billy scrambled as far from it as possible, thudding onto his back off the side of the couch, and Steve realized he was laughing again, wheezing with his hand against his face.  When he finally looked up, Billy was brushing himself off, straightening his jacket, and Steve imagined the look on his own face after the Camaro had thumped back. “Nah, I didn’t.” He patted his lip where the grin had stretched it, glancing down to check for blood.  “Much.” When Billy’s hackles raised further, Steve shouted over his rising glower. “How about Star Wars?”

 “Hell is wrong with you,” Billy muttered, but settled in the corner of the couch, apparently waiting for Steve to set up the movie.  By the time C-3P0 was trying to get to Obi-Wan, Billy’d passed out against the arm, his boots tucked up between the cushions. The smell of cooking sherry intensified, and the glint Steve noticed against the black leather and laces proved to be a hunk of broken glass.  There was more in the boot treads, and he could see a couple very small pieces caught in Billy’s shirt and hair. It was hard not to imagine the bank-robbing explosion Billy Hargrove would be walking away from, but his car was parked right out front, hard to miss, if the cops were looking for him.  Steve had never seen a SWAT team. Count on them to miss out on _actual monsters_ and chase Billy Hargrove to his house, he thought, indignantly sleepy, and shivered awake hours later, to fogging breath and the white noise of the TV.  He groaned, leaning forward to flap one arm at the remote, and switched off the TV. In the dark, he realized the slight rasp of Billy’s breathing had stopped.

 “...don’t _die_ on my _couch_ ,” he mumbled, frowning into the darkness, which remained dark, but the normal, fridge-humming kind of dark, not the strange blue fluttering darkness where Dustin had screamed.  He breathed in stale cigarette smoke and cooking sherry.

 Billy snorted.  “Just for you.”

 He was back in the safer kind of movie, again, Steve thought muzzily, kids having sleepovers.  There were movies where killers interrupted sleepovers, but they were humans, not monsters, and anyway he was not actually having a slumber party with Billy Hargrove:  Probable Bank Robber. He felt around next to the couch for the blanket, and pulled it clumsily over them. It occurred to him he hadn’t actually asked. “Sooooo...you rob a bank?” he tried, keeping it casual.  

 “Sure did,” Billy scoffed.  “Shot four guys, too. And there’s a stolen police car out there.”  

 “Oh, it’s _that_ kind of movie,” Steve squirmed down against the back of the couch, letting his head fall against his arms in the safe darkness.  The blanket fell over his face.

 “You’re not going to call the cops and tell them you’ve got a _bank robber?”_ Billy kicked him, and Steve batted weakly at his foot, eyes sliding shut again.

 “Watch it, you--broken glass...shoe.”  

\-------

 He woke to the fading smell of cooking sherry, and blinked slowly at the ceiling, the sudden deep sleep disorienting after he’d thought he’d never sleep again outside of Biology class.  “...wha--um,” he muttered, scrambling to look around. There was no sign of his home invader. He wondered how many murders “falling asleep with Billy ‘bank punching’ Hargrove a foot away” rated on the Idiot Scale, he had to be up to, oh, at least four.  He felt a weird temptation to ask Nancy before first period. He fiddled with his locker, considering it. The line between her brows deepened, and probably became downright thunderous as he grinned awkwardly at she and Jonathan, turned on his heel, and walked off.   

 That day after basketball, in the showers, Tommy guffawed at the hand-shaped bruises on Billy’s upper arms.  “Where were _you_ last night?   _All night long,_ huh?” he leered, shifted to making long groans and grunting noises, and before Steve could catch himself, words fell out of his mouth.

 “Those are huge, though, is your girlfriend Sylvester Stallone or--” he yelped as Billy shoved him against the wall, grin manic.  

 “What you trying to say, pretty boy King Steve?”

 “I think he’s calling you a--” Tommy smacked the wall and showerhead on his way to the floor as Billy shoved his face.   “A fucking _faggot_ ,” he yelled triumphantly, as Steve wondered why he was allowed to open his mouth, ever, at all, and Billy tried to swing around and punch him and almost fell on his ass.

 “It was my fucking _dad_ , okay, it’s no big deal.  My _dad_ ,” Billy  was screaming between them, as they both dodged around, until the teacher and half the class shoved their way in and pulled him away.  Steve fled. He dressed wondering how many more deserved Stupidity Murders he’d earned, getting in the communal shower with the guy who’d beaten his face in, and then opening his dumb fuckhead mouth and suggesting he’d had sex with Rambo.  Nancy was in the hall listening to Billy yelling inside, when Steve ducked out of the locker room with his pants on but half his head still soapy, and she helped him rinse his hair in the drinking fountain.

 “I think you and Hopper and Jonathan’s mom need to murder me about eleven times,” he told her, laughing, as he wiped water from his eyes.  “I think I just asked Hargrove if he was gay, in the _shower_.”  Her mouth fell open.  

“Uh,” her eyebrows drew together as she looked at the locker room, but her mouth quirked.  “Should we be running, then?”

“I probably should carry my bat,” he laughed, feeling around his ears one more time for soap, then grimacing and digging around in his bag for a sweaty gym shirt to rub on his head.  When he pulled it out, she looked even more disgusted than he felt.

“I’ve got dry clothes in my locker.  You can at least use a _clean_ shirt,” she stuck her tongue out, trotting confidently off.  “Bleah.”

Steve’s unfriendly neighborhood home invader didn’t reappear for over a week, but falling asleep to movies apparently worked, so he re-watched the beginnings of Rambo, Tron, and The Last Unicorn, discovered he could not fall asleep to Monty Python, and bought a much larger jar of Folger’s for mornings when even the dulcet tones of Winnie the Pooh hadn’t let his lungs work through the night without reminder.  The next time Billy showed up he just banged on the door, startling Steve out of the haze he’d fallen into during a Secret of NIMH song. Steve groaned, flapped unproductively at the remote to stop the animated mice, and then stumbled to his feet to make the door-abuse stop. The pounding continued through his shouted “I’m coming! I’m _coming!_ ” until Billy Hargrove nearly fell in on top of him, half naked, and began hopping into the other half of his jeans.  

“...what the hell,” Steve stared.

“What is that noise,” Billy scrambled to pull his jacket on, shivering, and nearly elbowed Steve in the face.  

“...uh, it’s, um, mice?” Steve blinked at Billy’s face, which looked like it needed some frozen peas.  “Uh. Lemme get you some frozen peas.” Billy tried to slam by him as usual, but Steve wasn’t good at basketball for nothing, and slid by the predictable motion on the way to the freezer.  He tossed over the peas, proudly not adding to his Stupidity Gauge by getting within five feet of the half-naked feral in his kitchen. It seemed unlikely Billy had accused anyone of having sex with Sylvester Stallone in a communal shower, but the parallels to his Eleven On The Stupidity Murder Scale day were hard to discount.  Focus, he thought.

 “Make me some of that coffee,” Billy was shivering, glaring at the peas.  If he’d been anyone else, Steve would have teasingly explained how to use frozen peas, but given their last interaction, he just let his lips thin.  

 “Hot chocolate?  I’ve got marshmallows.”  

 The furious disbelief Billy had focused on the peas turned to Steve’s face, amplified.  “Did you just offer me marshmallows.”

 “I _have_ some,” Steve sighed, taking down his blue mug, and one that said Happy Anniversary.  After a pause, he returned the anniversary mug to the cupboard, and grabbed one with a robin on it, filled them both with water, and stuck the robin in the microwave.

 “Marshmallows.”

 “Look, if you don’t like marshmallows, don’t eat any,” he pulled out the bag, the Swiss Miss, and the instant coffee.  

 “ _Rainbow_ marshmallows,” Billy observed scornfully.  “You’re girlier than _Max_.”

 “Everyone’s girlier than Max, except Hopper and Mrs. Byers,” Steve sighed.  “Coffee or chocolate. I mix them sometimes.”

 “You _rebel,”_ Billy snorted.  “Gimme some marshmallows.  You call the Sheriff ‘Hopper’?” he held out a hand, finally lifting the other to his face, and wincing as he placed the peas against the swelling bruise.  Steve had seen enough marshmallow bags absconded with to just drop some in the outstretched hand, the bag protectively at his side. He watched Billy start to drop the whole handful in his mouth, wince as he tried to open his mouth wide, and begin eating one at a time.  “...kinda got to know him. Me and Elle and the, y’know,” he held his hand at waist level, picturing Dustin’s indignant protest, “Muppet babies.”

 “Yeah, how’d _that_ happen?”  

 Steve reminded himself to breathe.  “Barb died. Bob died. You should be careful, you’ve got half the ‘b’s in your name.”  He turned away as the microwave beeped.

 “What,” Billy’s eyes narrowed.

 “Is it raining?” Steve asked.  “Why are you all wet?”

 “Fuck off,” Billy said around his mouthful of marshmallows, and Steve shrugged, presenting the steaming mug, a spoon, the box of chocolate mix, and the Folger’s.  

 “I give you the bird,” he said grandly, tossing his mug in the microwave.  Billy snorted, dumping three chocolate packets in the mug, and making grabby hands for the marshmallows.

 Steve surrendered the bag, leaning against the counter by the microwave.  He watched Billy wipe the water away that was trickling down his neck, and try to pretend he wasn’t shaking, dripping wet, in November.  Steve stomped off for a towel, returning to throw it to Billy just before the microwave beeped. “Gimme back those girly marshmallows,” Steve began dumping powders in his mug, stirring industriously, before topping it with a pile of rainbow.  

 Billy stalked off to take Steve’s spot on the couch, before sliding off to flip through the laserdiscs.  “Gonna punch these mice,” he muttered, lifting one, and flipped it to read the back. "You have movies for grownups?  Whaddaya do when there aren't, like, singing frogs, you just fall asleep or--?"

 "Oh no, not that one," Steve breathed, horrified.  "That's Nancy's, it gave me _nightmares_."

 "...IRA bombers?"  Billy frowned up incredulously.

 "No!  It's a romance, it's _awful,_ the guy falls in love with the girl and she has a dick and she thought he KNEW--"

 "What," Billy's voice had gone flat.

 "That night I dreamt I was in bed with Nancy for the first time and she took my clothes off and I was dickless with a secret pussy--"

 "Everyone knows that, Harrington--"

 "Shut your face, it was horrible, she just kept patting my hand sadly and she's a _problem solver_ , you know, she kept going to the kitchen and getting, like, a banana, and the pepper grinder--"

 The laserdisc sleeve drummed softly at Billy's head as he shook with laughter.

 "And she just looked more and more disappointed and finally she said she had to leave, she couldn't cope with a relationship where she had to satisfy herself with a garlic press, and she was sure I'd be happier moving on--" Steve had been laughing too, at the image of Nancy earnestly presenting him with carnally unsatisfactory kitchen gadgets, but he sighed, rubbing his face.  "Usually when I dreamed she'd dump me it was because I was invisible, or she was the president and she caught me setting up a kegstand in the--"

 "I'm gonna call you 'Secret Pussy' forever," Billy interrupted.

 "You will the hell not--"

 "What?!"  Billy laughed harder.  

 "I'm not a secret pussy, I'm secretly Kurt Russell, all my..." he slid further down in the couch, curling around his snickers.  "Ten out of ten trick-or-treaters agree."

 "You telling me you're half-blind, because it'd explain--"  The doorbell rang, over and over, like a blaring red alert, along with voices and the thump of bicycles against the side of the house, and Steve scrambled up to reach the entryway before Dustin, Mike, and Will all fell in at once.  "We need hot chocolate," Dustin said confidently, and Steve grimaced, thinking fast, before inwardly throwing his hands up and outwardly yelling "BILLY! Put on the kettle for hot chocolate!"

 Silence fell, all three kids going still, but after a few seconds the couch creaked, and Billy walked into the kitchen, and the sink turned on.

 “Is he holding you hostage,” Dustin whispered, eyes wide as he leaned around Steve’s shoulders.  

 “He’s probably eating marshmallows,” Steve raised his eyebrows at them, wondering whether it was stupid or just evil to allow the kids around Billy, who’d settled in in a weird way, but also probably bit, occasionally.  Unprompted. He didn’t want any of his stupidity murders to be because someone got actually murdered.

 “Will came for a sleepover,” Mike reported, glancing into the kitchen warily.  “And we were gaming, and it was fine, but then there was a short in the kitchen and sparks and--”

 Will sniffled, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.  “I can’t call my _mom,”_ he rolled his thin shoulders back, firming his chin as he looked up at Steve.  “She’ll never let me out _again_ \--”

 “He started crying all crazy,” Dustin put in, ever helpful, to a general elbowing, “And _I_ said, Steve has hot chocolate, and a bat.”

 “...ah,” Steve glanced at the kitchen.  “Did you guys let her know you were coming here?  So she doesn’t call and find you guys--”

 “We called,” Mike laughed apologetically.  “We said you invited us over.”

 Billy tromped back out to the living room, presumably to sneer at singing mice, as Steve herded the tiny assholes towards hot chocolate.  

 “ _Why is he here_ ,” Dustin whispered, very loudly, with his usual degree of subtlety.  Mike and Will nodded, and Steve laughed, rubbing his face.

 “It’s _fine_ , we have classes together, he’s not going to do anything,” he tried weakly, and Will’s eyes narrowed.

 “Do you need a distraction while we phone Hopper?” he asked softly under the noise of Steve getting more mugs and batting Dustin away from stress-eating all the marshmallows.  

 “Dustin could get your bat,” Mike suggested.

 “Thanks, man, send _Dustin_ out there,” Dustin sighed loudly.  

 “Dustin, get more marshmallows out of the garage,” Steve pointed, trying to channel Nancy’s no-nonsense tones.  “Will, fill these up and microwave them one by one for two and a half minutes. Mike--” he glanced around. “Get spoons and see if there’s still whipped cream in the fridge.”

 They slowly moved to obey, watching him closely as he began rifling the cupboard for candy canes.  Steve vindictively didn’t point out the spoon drawer to Mike. It was one thing, he thought, expecting his stupidity assessments from Hopper or Nancy, but he was not having it from children that did things like try to raise demodogs in turtle cages.

 Billy had settled in Steve's spot on the couch, as always--Steve rolled his eyes--and Steve headed for the other end, before noticing the kids standing in strained poses like awkward chainsaw art.  "Ugh," Steve sighed, before dropping next to Billy, whose shoulders hunched around his hot chocolate.

 "Okay, Will, you pick," he pointed.  

 "Pick this, Will," Dustin held up the animated Lord of the Rings.  

 "Shut up, Dustin," Mike threw a pillow at him, and Will yelped, dodging aside, before grabbing it and swiping Dustin.  

 Steve grinned.  “I found the candy canes,” he told Billy, who turned another disbelieving look on him, as Will smacked Mike with a pillow, and it turned into a free-for-all between the three of them until Dustin crawled under the melee and put on The Hobbit.  As soon as it loaded up, he plonked himself down next to Steve. Will sat cautiously next to him, and Mike dropped at the end, the quieter two studying their chocolate as Dustin elbowed Steve.

 “Man, I been _wanting_ to watch these without Lucas, he _hates_ Return of the King--”

 Mike grimaced over towards Billy at the sound of Lucas’ name.  “Well, it is kinda silly. It’s for little kids.”

 “It’s for Steve.  He has to have the singing in there,” Billy put in, and Dustin leaned around to stare at him.  

 “You’re another reason I’m glad Lucas ain’t here, man, you a Nazi or what?”

 “Neo Nazi,” Mike corrected quietly.  “They’re called Neo Nazis, it’s not 1945,”

 “Look, it’s Hobbiton,” Steve sighed into his mug.

 “Or the Ku Klux Klan,” Will put in, “Like in the South.”

 "No," Billy said finally, and after several seconds Dustin laughed.

 "No?!  No, you just slammed him into a wall?  No, you just told Max to stay away from his kind?"

 "I didn't say that."

 Steve could feel Billy's entire body going tense, and shut his eyes, breathing in the blended chocolate, coffee, and candy cane smells from his mug.  Twelve murders worth of stupidity, today, he thought, wondering whether he'd make it to the phone, and whether one of the kids would save him with the bat, and whether any of his Idiocy Tally would hit them, in a permanent sense.  

 "Why'd you beat him up, then?"  Mike asked pointedly. Eleven's boyfriend felt no physical fear, apparently.  Reasonable, if Eleven were actually _present._

 “Okay,” Steve tried to think of what Mrs. Byers would say.  “Whatever reasons he had, they weren’t good enough, can we all say ‘aye’ on that one?”

 “ _Aye!_ ” proclaimed Dustin and Mike in a shout, Will firmly, and, thankfully, Billy, sounding a little rough.  

 “And unless he does it again, it’s between he, Lucas, and Max?” Steve continued, pushing his luck.

 “Aaaaye,” came the sullen chorus from Steve’s right, and a fervent “Aye,” in low tones from Billy.  

 Steve sat back, wide-eyed, as his heart slowly stopped pounding.  An hour later, his head was draped back over the couch as he snored softly, and Mike had quietly left and returned to drop the bat full of nails across the coffee table.  Dustin pointed at it, speaking in his louder-than-speech stage whisper.

 “That’s Steve’s bat.  Look, it’s got _blood_ on it.  That’s _bully_ blood.”  He grabbed it and pointed it at Billy, who slammed his elbow into Steve.  

 “Harrington.   _Harrington._  Is that blood on that bat.”  Steve tried to roll sideways, growling, but Billy elbowed him in his chest, this time.  “ _Harrington_.  Did you _kill someone_.”  He glared around.  “Did you guys cover up a _murder?”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy gets bruised up offscreen, and gets vocally angry when something Steve says seems to imply he's gay. He does not have good opinions on women or gay people. Steve is fighting off panic attacks for most of the chapter.


	2. Fractionally gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve avoids explaining that he and the little shitheads were besieged in a school bus, and fixates a bit on hot chocolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to get some chapters of actual romantic stuff up for Valentine's Day, but have these assholes yelling at each other instead. 
> 
> Billy is still Billy, so, like, canon-typical internalized homophobia and slurs, details in end-notes if you need to check up on that.

As Steve was laughing at Billy’s horror over the bat, his lungs starting to clench at the impossibility of explaining, the phone rang.  He batted Mike aside and swung his leg over the back of the couch--any effort was worthwhile to forestall certain conversations.

 

“Steve,” the small voice came through raspy, and it took him a second to place it.  

“Max?”

Billy’s head popped up like a meerkat’s.  

“Billy ran out screaming.  Lucas said I should warn you.”  She gulped, difficult to understand through the rapid breathing.  “You--you better call Hopper, Steve, he might--”

“He’s just sitting here drinking hot chocolate, Max,” he hurried to reassure her, wincing as Billy stumbled back over the arm of the couch towards the wall, smacking his hand down for the bat as he moved.  Will kicked it out of his reach, and Billy winced as his shoulderblades thudded against the wall.

Max was breathing slowly--consciously, Steve thought, maybe he wasn’t the only one whose body had forgotten how.  “He’s what,” she asked, voice flat.

“He show...he shows up here, sometimes,” he closed his eyes, feeling the Judgemental Adolescent Brigade’s attention shift from Billy to him with laser focus.  “It’s fine.  I mean, he’s still an asshole, but he hasn’t done anything.  He--” Steve stopped himself before telling a middle-school girl her delinquent brother’s semi-alcoholic cigarette funk was more grounding than a lightning rod.  “...are _you_ okay?”

“Me and Lucas are fine,” she swallowed hard again, and Steve waited patiently.  Her voice dropped to a whisper.  “He might’ve...broken something.  His, um.  His dad said he fell down the stairs, but he’d just got in the shower.  He wouldn’t be trying to get laundry or anything.  He totally wanders around in his underwear if he forgets pants, Steve, he wasn’t hurrying to get anywhere,” she scoffed, and Steve frowned over to where Billy was still leaning against the wall, now casual, the bruised side of his face turned away from the room.  “I think he, uh.  I--I think he slammed him into a few other things.  The tub makes a noise.”

“You gonna call ‘Hopper’ on me?” Billy bared his teeth, staring at the bat, and Mike crouched, reaching for it.

“Whoa, whoa, hang on, Max,” Steve pressed the phone to his chest.  “Dustin.  Put the bat, uh, with the skis, y’know--” he waved vaguely, hoping to convey the bat’s location to everyone but Billy.  “Billy, if you’re gonna hit anything, uh.  Go upstairs and punch a pillow or something.  My room’s plaid.”

“So plaid,” Dustin confirmed, proud of his insider information.

“I think we should go,” Will whispered, and Mike slid an arm around him, baring his teeth right back at Billy.  

“And leave him here with Steve?  We should call Hopper.”

Billy snorted, but gave them a wide berth on his way to the kitchen, where he pointedly loitered for a while, reminding Steve of nothing so much as a cat who doesn’t want to admit anyone else has a good idea.  The stairs creaked under his rapid footsteps as Dustin returned, then spun in place.  “Where the hell is he?!  Did you kill him?!”  

“He went upstairs,” Will whispered back, frowning up at the sound of a creaking hallway.

“Max,” Steve tried to ignore the whispered conference behind him.  “He seems fine, but I’ll check later.  Glad you have a date night, or every little shithead I know would be here.  Why don’t you guys ever just show up to sell _cookies?”_ he frowned accusingly at Mike, who frowned back.

“I just don’t want the stupid shit _dying in your house,”_ Max grumbled, and Steve found himself grinning again into the handset.  

“It’s okay, we’ve got a shovel,” he rubbed his face.  

She snorted.  “Are you sure I shouldn’t call Hopper?  I mean he might...set you on fire, or...fuck your mom.”

“...what a resume,” Steve sighed, trying not to just sit on the floor and laugh, or possibly cry.  His lungs were ready to heave, but undecided.  “He’s not doing anything, yet.  If he sets my mom on fire, I’ll definitely let you know.”

“Does Steve _have_ a mom?” Steve heard Mike asking Dustin.

In his ear, Max took a shaky breath.  “...okay.  Okay.  Are...are you _sure_ we shouldn’t come over?  I can steal my mom’s car.”

“No!”  Steve barked.  “No! It’s fine!  You definitely don’t have to get _arrested_ to come protect me, holy shit.  Go...watch My Little Pony or something.  Or hey, watch something for _you_ , screw what Lucas wants.”  That brought grins to Dustin, Mike, and Will’s faces, and he heard Max relaying it to a shouting Lucas over the phone.  “Okay.  I’m gonna hang up.  It’s fine.  If anything happens, I _promise_ I’ll call Hopper.”

“Yeah, you better.”  The connection clicked over to dial tone.

“...if we keep watching, it’ll show us how to kill the _Nazgul_ Steve’s got in his _bedroom_ ,” Dustin sing-songed, grinning, and Steve sighed.  

“Yeah.  Sure.  I need more--” the kettle shrieked again--Billy must have switched it on, after Steve had chosen to busy his invaders with the microwave instead of allowing conversation.  He frowned as he flicked it off, but no stairs creaked, so he figured it was to be obnoxious, rather than a need for more hot chocolate.  “...I need more hot chocolate.”  So did they all.  Steve surveyed the Hot Chocolate Cupboard--the only cupboard he used, the only one that wasn’t a bit dusty--and couldn’t really think of much else he could buy.   _I could fill up the garage,_ he thought, thinking of the ease of routine in the grocery store, filling an entire cart with marshmallows, and the reassurance of a shelf of them every time he parked his car.   _I’ll have to stockpile candy canes_ , he thought with a snort, his intestines doing a crampy clench at the idea of running out in mid-February, and having some kind of breathing emergency that required them.   _They’ll find me blue in the kitchen,_ he muffled his snickers against the sleeve of his forearm, _after I collapse because my hot chocolate isn’t right, and my lungs turn into inflexible plastic soda bottles, and Billy isn’t around to bitch about singing mice._

“...Steve?” Dustin’s voice trailed in from the front room over the sound of goblins, and Steve wiped his eyes, sniffling.  

“Be right there.”

 

Another hour in, and Steve had jerked awake nearly every ten minutes to the sound of Dustin’s voice, so he stood, stretching.  Dustin crawled forward to pause the VCR when Steve walked into the kitchen.  

“Go ahead,” he leaned back into the front room.  “I’m beat.  I’m going to go sleep upstairs.”  On his way, he refilled his hot chocolate, and grabbed another, crouching to make sure they didn’t foam up over the sides, that there were equal piles of marshmallows, and that his was actually mostly coffee.

He didn’t see the exchange of wide-eyed glances.

The lights were off in his room.  The hallway light shone across Billy’s defined abs where he was sprawled across Steve’s bed.  Steve kicked his way through a pile of shoes on his way to the desk lamp.

“What the hell,” Billy groaned, covering his face with his arms.  

“I brought more hot chocolate, I guess,” Steve shrugged, rattling around in his desk drawers.  “I told Max I’d make sure you weren’t broken anywhere, or anything.”  He thumped the first aid kit on his desk.  It still had smears of blood on it.

Billy snorted.  “The hell did she tell you.”

Steve opened his mouth to ask about the hand-shaped bruises he’d compared to Sylvester Stallone’s, closed it again, and shrugged.  “Sounds like your dad’s an asshole.”  Billy flinched, then tried to cover it with a luxurious stretch.

“Breaking news.”

“Come on, sit up, dickhead, let me check out your face.”

“You just wanna check me out,” Billy bared his teeth in a wide smile, leaning in like Steve was somebody he was about to ask to Makeout Point.

“Um,” Steve leaned away so fast his head hit the wall, and Billy cackled, curling on to his side on the bed in a fit of the giggles.

“Y’don’t want a blow job, _Harrington_ _?_  Are you sure?  You’re being _awfully_ ,” his mouth quirked into a crooked grin, “--fucking.  _Sweet_ to me.  You had me _wait in your bed_.”

Steve sighed, rubbing his face.  There was probably some scientific name for something just difficult enough to keep your mind off worse things.  Nancy would know.  Maybe he could switch to a different awful thing to keep the nightmares away.  Alcohol would probably work, but the idea of being drunk and not noticing the motion detector lights coming on all around the house--he grabbed at the hot chocolate, slopping it on his math homework, but feeling the heat ease into his palms.  The marshmallows were sweet foam, almost entirely melted, and he sipped slowly, licking the sugar off his lips.  After Max’ phone call, he couldn’t just kick Billy out-- _That’s almost worse than the trunk_ , he thought, _sending him back to somebody who slams his head into the side of the tub_.  He could put the kids in his parent’s room, he thought, then imagined them wandering off to poke Billy in the night, ending with Billy a snarling silhouette at the treeline, dragging a bleeding child away, red spray against the snow and trees, and dripping blood from his mouthful of soft belly.   He sighed, closing his eyes.  When he opened them again, Billy had gone very still.

“...you gonna get your bat, King Steve?” he whispered.  

“I’m not going to hit anybody with a nailbat,” Steve opened the first aid box, counting off breaths in his head.  _One one thousand,_ he breathed.   _Two one thousand_.  He breathed again. “Not unless you make me.”

Billy’s grin widened.  “How do I make you?  I could fuck Nancy.  I could punch what’s his name.  The kid with no teeth.”  

Steve stared at him.  “That’s...that’s the shit you’re gonna do?”

“Not if you tell me the rules,” Billy sat up and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk.  

“What,” Steve squinted, suddenly trying to calculate the amount of sleep he’d had recently.  It wasn’t enough. He knocked back more of his ‘coffee’.  “What are you talking about?”

“When,” Billy leaned in again, “--you gonna--” his breath tickled Steve’s lips, “--fuck me _up,_ Harrington.”

“Jesus,” Steve jerked back again.  

“Some blood on that bat,” Billy stretched, leaning to look out the window.  “You gonna bury me out in the woods?  Oh, no, I know, the sheriff’s your friend, you make it look like I drove drunk.”

“What,” Steve clenched the edge of the desk, hoping this ride slowed soon so he could get off.  “...I’m not…”

“Oh, I get it now,” Billy laughed, going still again.  “You killed that girl.  Barb.  That’s why little Nancy-Nance broke up with you.”

“I didn’t kill _anyone_ ,” Steve watched Billy’s legs kicking in the air as he lolled around like a happy cat, rubbing his eyes.  

“That’s how you know ‘Hopper’.  He helped you cover it up.  Was she pregnant?”  Billy cracked up, covering his face.  “I thought you’d make a _great_ dad, _King Perfect,_ Steve Harrington, but that’s really shitty of you.”  He grinned over lazily.  “You’re starting earlier than _mine_ did, did you make the bat for that, or did you already--”

Steve slammed his fist on the desk, making the light bounce and flicker.  “I _didn’t kill anyone_.  It was some-- _animal_.  It ate Dustin’s cat.  Got in Will’s house.  The--the little shitheads are just impressed because I babysat them while Hopper and Ms Byers set the nest on fire.”

“What, you hit some little...coyote?”  Billy sat up to glare at him, all the musculature on display vibrating with tension as he leaned to breathe all over Steve’s face again, and Steve rolled backwards in the chair, sighing.  

“Yeah.  Yeah, it was a coyote.  I’m not gonna hit you with a _nailbat_ , Jesus.”  

“So when I showed up at the Byers, you were all afraid of a _coyote_.”

“It was scary as hell,” Steve shrugged.  

“So scary you had syringes of sedative big enough to put _me_ down.  Lookee, your majesty, I’m _so much_ _bigger_ than a coyote,” he spread his arms, smiling.  It looked uncomfortable, Steve thought, the stiff denim over all that sweaty bare shivering skin.  Max’ call earlier had given Billy the added funk of adrenaline sweat over his usual eau de teenage alcoholic smoker whose shower got interrupted, and Steve tried to lean back in subtly, feeling his brain clear of blue tint.

“Look, we don’t know what it was.  It _ate_ people--”

“Who, _Barb?”_

“Barb!  Yes! It _ate Barb_ , that’s why no one found her!”

“Why the hell didn’t you just _shoot_ it?”

“I don’t have a gun,” Steve rolled his eyes, inhaling the relaxing smell of stupid asshole, and feeling it work on his lungs.  “‘Hey, Sheriff Hopper, I need a gun!’ I’m sure that would have worked.”

“The hell?  Where was he?  They just left you with the kids and went off--what _was_ it, a bear?!”

“Sure, yeah, I guess.”  Steve shrugged, rubbing his face as the adrenaline keeping him awake ebbed.  

“Sure.  And then you used your _syringe_ on _me_.”

“Max was afraid I’d die!  At least we didn’t leave you on the floor to get _eaten_.”

Billy stared at him.  “You locked me _in a trunk_...to be a Good _fucking_ Samaritan.  What the hell were you supposed to do with a syringe against--a whatever, like, jump on its back?”

“Well, you knocked me _out_ ,” Steve rubbed his face, his brain going a little fuzzy as the image of Billy punching him superimposed itself over Billy sitting on the edge of his bed.  “That was Max and them.  You’d just tried to kill her friends, she maybe just wanted you locked up somewhere.  I didn’t wake up until they were _driving_ ,” he grimaced, forcing another deep breath.  

“Yeah, but, I mean--they just left you with a bat and a syringe?  What the hell kind of--where are _your_ parents?  ‘Hopper’ and the Byers just leave you to defend against--things--”

He sounded as pissed off as usual, and Steve shook his head, grinning.  “Pretty safe until _you_ showed up.”

“I wasn’t gonna...fucking _kill_ them,” Billy snorted.  

“You sure?  You were sure acting like it.”

“He told me to get the little bitch _home_ , okay--”

“Leave the little assholes alone, I am not fucking around about this,” Steve’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s when the bat comes out,” Billy took a shuddering breath, rubbing his face.  “Just them, huh?  ‘Cause you’ve still got some greeny face there from when I clocked you in the--”

“Fuck you, _and_ me,” Steve amended.  “Me too.  Goddamn.  Just don’t--fucking _attack_ people.  _We_ used the _syringe,_ and not the bat.  Look, do you want a shirt to put on.”

“Make me,” Billy grinned, but his voice was starting to sound hoarse, and his hands trembled.  “Why don’t you _make me_ , Harrington.”

“Damn iiiiit,” Steve let his head clonk against the first aid kit.  “Look, you’re _shaking_.  Are you actually _hurt_.  Are you _cold_.  Do you have any _wounds_.”

“I’m great,” Billy beamed back, eyes over-shiny in the low light.  “Wanna check my teeth?  They’re a little loose on the left. They’d probably come out easy.  Bloody teeth all over your room.”

“Max was afraid your head hit the tub,” Steve leaned in to frown at the bruise, and Billy caught his breath.

“My--my knee.  And--it’s fine.  Why the hell was she listening,” his eyes were fixed on Steve’s mouth, like _Steve_ was the biting risk.

Steve sighed with relief, spun in his desk chair, and stalked over to his dresser to throw a sweatsuit over--at first he aimed for Billy’s head, but logic happened, and he just tossed it on the bed within reach.  “Do you want a shower? I mean, she said you--”

“Max should get that diarrhea of the face checked,” Billy growled.

“Or not, but they’re clean and dry,” Steve shrugged, wishing Billy and all his problems would just vanish into a nice sleep-inducing haze until morning.

After an odd moment where Billy apparently felt the need to hold up the elastic and test it, he glared over.  “You gonna _watch?_  My hot chocolate’s cold.  Fix it, _Mom_.”

Steve blinked, then sighed, wandering back to the desk to grab both mugs.  “We shower together after games, asshole. I’ve seen it all before.”

“Oh, you were _looking?”_ Billy snarled, and Steve backed out of the room.  “You eyeing me up?  Wanna put your _hands_ on me, _King Harrington?”_

“Just trying to pretend you were Cindy Crawford,” Steve backed through the door, sighing.  “Bathroom’s through there, if you want it.  I’m gonna go let the Scooby Gang know I’m alive.”

Naturally, there was a general scramble on the stairs as he turned down them.  “We heard a thump,” Will watched his face nervously.

Upstairs, the shower turned on, and Steve sighed, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table.  “Yeah, he’s so annoying I slammed my hand on the desk. Okay, I’m not saying I _like_ him, or want him around--”

“Psh _yeah_ ,” Dustin agreed stoutly, glaring at Mike.

 _Huh_ , Steve thought, too tired to ask.  “...I need to talk to Hopper,” he leaned his face in his arms.

“I’ll call El,” Mike’s eyes narrowed, his voice ringing with judgement.  After a minute or so of whispering, the plastic of the handset banged Steve in the head, and he flapped his hand for it.  

“Sheriff Hopper?”

“Steve.”

“Uh, you called me before when Billy was driving around.  Did his dad call you again?”

“We’ve got a report of him leaving the house drunk, disorderly, and intending _mayhem_ ,” Hopper sounded disbelieving.  “Which sounds about right, for him, what you got, kid?”

“Um,” Steve felt his shoulders hunch.  “He was...here, that time.  He wasn’t even drunk!  He was just--” he waved a hand, “--sitting on the couch.  We watched Star Wars.”

“Okay,” Hopper waited, sounding even judgier than Mike.

“He just...showed up here again tonight, soaking wet and half in his jeans--”

“Ew, _gross_ ,” Dustin made a revolted face at Mike, whose nose wrinkled.  Will shot a glance upstairs, wide-eyed.

“And, uh, Max called?  And said Billy’s dad grabbed him out of the shower, kicked his ass.  Threw him down the stairs...I guess?” he trailed off, shrugging apologetically at the phone, as Mike mouthed ‘Good,’ to nods from the other two.  “He’s pretty banged up?”

“Billy Hargrove has been hiding out at your house,” Hopper said slowly, and Steve rubbed his face, groaning, and feeling like he was shrinking inches every minute this conversation continued.  He’d have to see if Billy minded carting him around, once he was the size of Stuart Little.  “Did he finally do something?  Why own up now?”

“Well, I mean, he’s not actually doing anything?  Instead of having to drive around all night looking out for him, you can just call up and ask me whether there’s an asshole here bitching about Secrets of NIMH?”   Steve bit his lips, uncertain about this strange ritual of communicating with adults.

Hopper took a long whistly breath through his teeth.  “Not too comfortable with him around the kids.”

“Uh, yeah, I had him go upstairs, they’re like...segregated,” Steve made an apologetic face at Will, who blinked, then shyly nodded.

After a brief pause, Hopper asked “You tell that boy what to do and he _does_ it?”

“...mostly?  I mean, he knows I know you, I think he thinks you’d help me cover up his murder?”

“Hopper would,” Dustin nodded confidently.

“...only if it were _Billy Hargrove_ ,” Mike shook his head.  “He wouldn’t let Steve murder just _anybody_ \--”

“I trust you not to murder anyone unless it’s self-defense,” Hopper sounded exhausted, but also like he might be laughing.  “Call if you need anything, you know that.”

“...yeah,” Steve’s throat felt too tight to swallow.

“Night, kid.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, night.”  He sat listening to the dial tone, wondering what to do.

“Why do you have to harbor _that_ fugitive,” Dustin shuddered, holding his hands up like a silent movie heroine in denial.  “Couldn’t you have, like, a hot British double agent?  With eleven guns, that does flips.”

“Usually it’s _fine_ , because nobody’s _here_ ,” Steve waved his arms, sighing.

Mike and Will both frowned from his face to Dustin’s, but Dustin made a very obvious “Cut it off” motion at his neck, and they didn’t ask.  Steve couldn’t help it, the idea of Dustin keeping track of his friends’ slumber party etiquette had him snickering again. “Holy god. I’m going back to _bed_.”

“But...Billy’s up there,” Will pointed out, and received an elbow from Mike.

“Yeah, he is.  You guys can sleep down here or in the big bedroom, Dustin knows where.”  Dustin nodded, obviously resisting a salute. “He’s...look, it’s fine, he...sleeps, like everybody else--”

“Is he why you haven’t been sleeping?” Will asked solemnly.

Steve snorted.  “Ha.  Nuh-unh.  Okay, you guys have had nightmares--” Mike and Will nodded, while Dustin scoffed.  “Imagine you’re--” Steve glanced at Will--“somewhere in a nightmare, but something really weird walks by, something so out of place it’s funny--”

“...Clifford?” Will suggested hesitantly.

“Eugh!”  Mike groaned.  “I’m gonna _burn_ that ABC book--”

“It’s really hard to focus on our game around stupid _Clifford--”_ Dustin rolled his eyes.  “You walk into a dungeon and suddenly Mike’s mom’s voice, ‘That’s an ostrich!  O!  O is for Ostrich!”

“I _know--”_ Mike groaned.  “Try _living_ there--”

“Clifford!”  Steve grinned.  “Exactly! That’s right.  So you’re in a nightmare, and _Clifford_ walks by.  And you don’t really _want_ Clifford around--”

“He’s annoying as hell--” Mike slumped into the other kitchen chair.

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, at Will’s thoughtful expression.  “He’s huge and he smells like a dog--”

“He takes huge shits,” Dustin grinned proudly.

“-- _but_ ,” Steve eyeballed Will in particular, “--you can’t really be _scared_ , either, with the Big Friendly Dog stinking up the place--’

“Billy is Clifford,” Will’s eyes widened.  “You like having him here.  Even though he smells awful.”

“Yeah, well.  He’s showering,” they all grimaced at the ceiling.  

“I listen to music with Jonathan,” Will said softly.  

“I call El, or put the TV on,” Mike nodded.

 _“I’m_ not scared,” Dustin snorted.  “But if I was, I’d _call somebody_ , Steve, come on, pick up the phone, you don’t need a huge shitty dog.”

 _“Bedtime,”_ Steve stretched, groaning.  “It’s...whatever. I don’t care.” he staggered upright, already focused on the hours of sleep he might get with Billy breathing in the same room.  “I’m going to bed, to sleep, and if anyone wakes me up, there better be--” he glanced at Will again, and cleared his throat. “--a costumed supervillain, like, circling the house.”

“Nah, he’s already upstairs,” Dustin muttered, and Steve flipped him off, already running up the stairs.  

As Steve frowned at the bed--it’d seemed bigger when he had a girl in it, but then, he supposed, he wasn’t wary of Nancy breaking his face if he brushed his elbow against hers in the night--Billy wandered in, sweatshirt half pulled over his head.

“Holy crap, there,” Steve stared at the purple bruising under Billy’s right shoulderblade and across his ribs, the familiar greeny-yellow handprint on his shoulder, fingermarks on his forearm, and what honestly looked like a heel-stomp on his lower back.  

Billy scrambled to get the sweatshirt pulled down.  “Fuck you.  Go fuck yourself.  King _fucking_ Steve Harrington.”

Steve ordinarily had no trouble restraining the urge to laugh at Billy, who he mostly thought of as an unexploded bomb, but listening to his angry “fuck”s muffled through thick jersey fabric was hilarious.  He forestalled it with a hand over his mouth.  “I’m gonna go to sleep,” he pointed at the bed, more for his own comprehension than anyone else’s.  “You can do whatever, but there’s still a whole Munchkin music number going on downstairs.”

Billy looked from his pointing finger, to the bed, back to Steve’s face.  “This is an invitation to _sleep in your bed_.”  

“I don’t care,” Steve tottered over and pulled back the covers.  “Oh, I guess you could sleep in your car.  I told them downstairs they could have the other bedroom or the couch, but I won’t be there to stop them bugging you, and if you murder them I’ll have to…” the pillow against his face felt like the smooth feathers of a celestial swan.  “This is the best bed,” he mumbled.

“Harrington,” Billy’s voice came from somewhere off to Steve’s right.  “ _Steve_.”

“Sleeping,” Steve told him, wondering dazedly whether he’d dream about Clifford.  Or Billy.  Or Billy riding Clifford.

 

He didn’t remember what he dreamt about, jerking out of a sound sleep to a shout of his name downstairs (Dustin, probably), and the streaming light of the motion detectors.  He had a vague impression of vaulting over the banister and not dying, and finding Mike and Dustin trying to jolly Will out of a panic attack.

“It’s probably just a leaf or something,” Dustin said, both thumbs up, as Steve sighed and got his bat.  The VCR clock said it was four, so he’d actually gotten a few hours of sleep. He shoved his feet into his boots by the door, and stepped outside, keeping to the shadows, and shuffling, so he wouldn’t crunch loudly in the snow.  The lights were scheduled for three minutes, so they flipped off soon after he began his circuit. He rested the bat against his shoulder, closing in on the sound of snow crunching.

Of course it was just Billy.  He shuffled silently closer to the lit end of Billy’s cigarette, only to have the motion detector lights snap back on and illuminate Billy’s face from less than a foot away.  Billy screamed, flailing backwards and landing on his ass in the snow, and Steve started snickering, leaning on his bat.

“What the _fuck,_ Harrington,” Billy yelled, sounding breathless.  His hair was dusted with snow, and the hoodie hood was wedged awkwardly half under the jean jacket, making him look a little less dangerous than usual.  “What the _hell,_  what in the--”

Steve considered himself, shirtless in yanked-on, unbuttoned jeans, a bloodied nailbat over his shoulder, and grinned.  “I look like Conan or something.”

“You fucking _asswipe,_ you look _nuts--_ I thought I was gonna _die--”_

“The little bastards saw the motion detector come on and woke me up,” Steve shrugged, leaning on his bat again as he held a hand down for Billy, who’d landed in about two feet of snow and a patch of scrubgrass and was stabbing his hands in the snow without finding any leverage to shove himself upright.  Billy jerked back, and Steve groaned, rubbing his face.  “...you’re just gonna sit there in the snow?”

Billy’s glare didn’t waver as he grabbed at the uneven grass, trying to push himself up, and Steve finally bent in close and grabbed his hand.  

Billy yanked back.  “--fuck go of me--”

“Come _on_ ,” Steve set the end of the bat in the snow and pushed off it to haul Billy up so chilled denim thudded against his chest.  

Billy went still against him.  

“Breathe,” Steve recommended, recognizing the signs of recalcitrant lungs, and brushed a hunk of snow out of Billy’s mullet.  The skin under the denim collar was warm, and Steve let his half-frozen fingers linger there, breathing easily in the cloud of cigarette smoke, and the smell of his shampoo on Billy Hargrove’s mullet.  It was soft, and Steve let his fingers curl in it, resting his thumb behind Billy’s ear.

“The hell are you putting your hands on me,” Billy’s breath was warm against his ear, but he didn’t pull away.  

Steve considered, head clear and and nearly fizzy with the hours of sleep.  In the chill of snow against his shoulders, with his hand clenched in the denim of Billy’s jacket, he felt farther away from tunneling nightmares than he had in months.  Billy finally lifted his face from Steve’s shoulder enough to take another drag on his cigarette, which forced him to wrap that arm loosely around Steve’s shoulder to reach.  Steve giggled, mentally cataloguing the windows probably holding small, horrified faces.

“You tell my dad I’m here and nobody’ll ever find my body,” Billy breathed smoke against his head, before pulling back enough to press his lips to Steve’s.

 _He has long eyelashes_ , Steve thought, less confident about his wakefulness than he’d been moments before, but kissing Billy’s warm mouth was weirdly cozy, and he leaned into it, feeling the bat slide from his hand.  “Wait,” he clenched his fingers in the curls at the base of Billy’s skull, and Billy groaned against his mouth, eyes sliding shut. “...wow,” Steve paused, distracted by the immediate rush of red across Billy’s cheeks, but Billy ducked his head, jerking away, so Steve pulled him back with his other hand around Billy’s neck.  “Wait.” He licked his lips, thinking. “That’s.  Huh.  We should go back inside.  But your dad knows you--you’re gay?”

“I’m not a _fag_ ,” Billy jerked backwards, but didn’t try to disentangle Steve’s hands from his hair and neck.  “I fuck women, _Harrington--_ ”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but you just...I mean,” Steve ran his thumbs up Billy’s cheeks, pulling him closer, fascinated at the lack of protest.  “Wait, that’s why he--?” he touched the bruise carefully.

“No,” Billy growled.  “I mean, I don’t know, I know mom didn’t just have a dizzy spell on the stairs, but I bet she--she wasn’t--fucking _women--_ ”

“Jesus,” Steve tugged him back in so their foreheads met, studying Billy’s closed eyes and shivers as their breath fogged.  “You think your dad’s a _murderer?_  You think he-- _”_

“Shut the fuck up, Harrington,” Billy swallowed.  “The hell are you gonna do.  You gonna tell ‘Hopper’ I kissed you.  You gonna tell my dad.  Might as well kill me with that bat, _Steve_ ,” he shifted away, stilling at Steve’s hand on the back of his skull.  

“No, no, Jesus, calm down--” Steve pulled him close again, breathing in Essence of Hargrove in hopes his mind would stop spinning.  “Fuck.  Your--your dad killed your mom?”

“Dunno what the hell else coulda happened,” Billy said thickly, tense against him.

“...jesus.”  Steve whispered against his jaw.  “You should--you should tell Hopper.  Christ. Uh, we should--we should go back inside.”

“Your three little piglets probably already called him.  They’ll think I ate you out here.”

“Oh shit,” Steve grabbed Billy’s hand in one of his, scooping up the bat with the other, and began dragging him back toward the house.  “How long have I _been_ out here, they probably _did--”_

“What the _hell_ , Steve, why--you’re--let _go,”_ Billy tried to shake him off, staggering after him through the snow.  

“It’s fine!” Steve shouted, stumbling over all the shoes as they tromped through the door.  “This asshole was having a cigarette!” he held up his and Billy’s hands like they’d won a trophy, and Billy tried to jerk away again, snarling under his breath.  

“What are you doing,” Dustin said levelly, staring between them.  

Mike’s nose was wrinkled.  “You can let him go now.”

Will’s red rimmed eyes traveled over Billy and fixed on their clasped hands, but he just cocked his head, raising his eyebrows at Steve, who felt his face heat.  

“We’re going back to sleep,” Steve dove towards the stairs, prompting a burst of expletives from Billy, who scrambled after him.  

 

Upstairs, Steve closed and locked his bedroom door, dropped the bat to thud against the wall, and turned to face Billy, who was shuddering at regular intervals.  “Un...less you want more hot chocolate,” Steve stood back, surveying the shivers and teary eyes.

“I don’t fucking want hot chocolate, what is it with you,” Billy bared his teeth, hunching in on himself, and Steve reflected with a grin that for once, he didn’t want hot chocolate either.  

“You _kissed_ me,” Steve dropped into the office chair, letting it slowly spin him all the way around.

“Prove it in court,” Billy sighed, hugging himself in his snowy jacket.  

“Come on,” Steve waved him over.

“Hell no,” Billy backed away, his shoulders hitting the wall again.  

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, then snorted a laugh.  “Don’t make me grab your hair again.”

“Fuck you,” Billy’s eyes narrowed, but slowly traveled down Steve’s chest, over his abs, and down to his unbuttoned jeans and visible triangle of briefs.  “...plaid the new thing at court?  Isn’t your room enough?  Look,” he rolled his shoulders, probably forgetting his borrowed saggy grey sweats were hiding his usual flexing pectorals.  “You want a blowjob?  You can’t tell anyone.”

“What?” Steve blinked.

“Want my mouth on your dick?”  Billy sauntered towards him.  “Don’t tell my father,” he leaned in to whisper along Steve’s jaw, and Steve resisted the urge to reach down and hoist his dick out of his briefs.  “Don’t tell the sheriff.”  Billy dropped to his knees, mouthing down Steve’s chest.  “Don’t--cave my--head in,” he went still as Steve slid a hand in his hair.  “Don’t crush my eyeballs with a nailbat, and I’ll blow you.”

“Wait,” Steve groaned, tugging to detach Billy’s warm, soft mouth from the edge of his jeans.  “Damn it.  Billy, hold on--”

“The _hell_ is wrong with you, Harrington?” Billy sat back on his feet, eyebrows raised.  “Close your eyes if you want, I don’t care--”

“I just--” Steve ran his fingers along Billy’s jaw, losing his train of thought as Billy tipped his head willingly.

“You wanna hit me _and_ have me?” Billy laughed, turning his head to bite gently at Steve’s hand.  “I’m hot with bruises. Gimme a bloody nose, kiss off your daily iron allowance, your _majesty.”_

“No.  No,” Steve clenched his fingers in the silky hair at the back of Billy’s head again, feeling him sag.  He was careful not to yank individual strands.

“Don’t tell _anyone_ , though.  Hit me, don’t kill me,” Billy pulled Steve’s thumb in his mouth with his tongue, sucking suggestively, but his eyes were getting shiny again.  “Come on. You don’t really wanna haul me out of another trunk.”

“Jesus.  Billy,” Steve yanked his hand away from Billy’s mouth.  “I won’t tell anyone you’re--I mean, that we’re--what are we even doing.”  For the first time, his lungs started to feel stiff even with Billy Hargrove right in front of him.  He forced some small, shallow breaths, watching Billy’s eyes start to brim over. He put the hand not holding Billy’s hair over his mouth to forestall what was probably about to be another flood of abuse, and took another breath.   _One one thousand_ , he counted to himself, holding it and letting it out.  “You--you’re a _fuckhead,”_ he started again, feeling Billy laugh against his hand.  “Look, I’m not gonna--if you get up right now, I won’t tell anyone, and I won’t-- _hit_ you, or anything.  If you wanna be there, that’s--that’s good too.  But.  I won’t tell anyone.”

Billy shook his head, trying to get away from Steve’s hand over his mouth--since Steve hadn’t moved when he licked it--and Steve lowered it, narrowing his eyes.   Billy cleared his throat. “What’s the point, then?”

Steve flailed his free hand.  “It was your idea!”

“I like _women,”_ Billy bared his teeth.  “You’re just gonna shut your eyes anyway.”

“What, you want me to stare at you?”  Steve pressed his licked thumb to Billy’s lower lip.  He’d tasted like cigarettes and chocolate.

“I don’t fucking want anything,” Billy let his eyes slide closed, pressing his face into the seam of Steve’s jeans.  “Neither of us are fucking...queers.”

Steve wondered, in passing, whether he wanted more of a sexual buffet table than he’d suspected.   _It makes sense,_ he thought, one hand in Billy’s hair, the other satisfying various curiosities about Billy’s ear piercing, the texture of his stubble, and the heat coming up in his cheeks.  _Nobody wants the same thing forever, right?_ He leaned in again, kissing _Billy Hargrove_ , and huffing a laugh of disbelief.  Billy flinched back, eyes blinking wide.  

“You gotta lay off the little shitheads,” Steve remembered to say, pulling back.  Billy’s mouth quirked, and Steve kissed it again, tugging at Billy’s lower lip and its edge of stubble with his teeth.  Billy moaned into his mouth, and Steve grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer--not that there was much closer for him to be.  

“I don’t give a shit about them,” Billy panted against his mouth.  

“I ended up with them somehow, you need to be...okay with them, if you can _be_ nice to people without...taking your pants off,” Steve pressed lightly on Billy’s unbruised cheek with his thumb, and Billy obediently opened his mouth.  He still tasted better than Steve would have expected, his mouth warm and smoky, and his body ever more pliable as Steve held him firmly by the hair.

“Being nice right now,” Billy whispered back, and Steve snorted, pulling him into another kiss.  The left side of Billy’s mouth tasted coppery, and his soft groan turned into more of a pained whine, but he slid his arms around Steve’s neck to stop him from pulling away.

“God,” Steve tucked his face against Billy’s other cheek, breathing him in.  “You--you gotta promise, though. If you’re about to lose your shit at a kid, _walk away_.”

“I wouldn’t really,” Billy laughed, pulling his arms back to fumble at Steve’s pants.  Steve grabbed his hands.

“Billy.”

“I _won’t_ ,” he shoved away to stomp over against the wall.  “The hell is this, Steve, some kinda trap.   _Fuck_ you.”  

“Nooooo,” Steve said slowly, feeling whiplash.  “That was…” he felt his cheeks flush.  “That was good.  You should come back over here.”

“Why the hell would I,” Billy rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck menacingly, but wandered a few feet closer.  “What if one of your spawn calls the sheriff.  He’ll show up and shoot me in the head.”

“Oh!  I called him,” Steve blinked.  “While you were in the shower--” he cut off at Billy’s soft choking noise.  

“He’s not here, what, he’s just waiting for me at home, then--” his voice had gone high and wet.

“What?”

“He’s gonna know, _Harrington_ , he’s gonna--god, fuck you, he’s gonna nail me to a fucking fence--” he scrambled over to reach for the bat, and Steve put all his basketball lessons in interference into preventing him from reaching it, finally hugging Billy’s arms to his body.

 _“Sshhhh,”_ he tried, unable to think of anything else.  “Shhh, Billy.  I called Hopper. I told him your dad was a liar.  I told him we watched Star Wars.  He’s not coming.  He’s not telling your dad.”

“Fuck you,” Billy’s voice shook.  

Steve rocked them back and forth, hugging him tighter, and Billy snorted into his shoulder.  “Lemme go.”

“Not sure I should,” Steve breathed against his neck.

“This is so gay,” Billy groaned.

“I think we’re both maybe half gay, though.”  Steve loosened his grip, sliding his hand up to stroke his thumb against the base of Billy’s skull, and Billy shuddered, snorting a laugh.

“Fags come in fractions?”  

“Maybe.”  

Billy took a deep breath, tickling Steve’s ear.  “...maybe you’re a moron.”

Steve slid his other hand under the denim jacket and old sweatshirt, running the flat of his hand up and down Billy’s back.  

“Maybe,” Billy whispered in his ear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Billy uses slurs to deny his pantsfeelings for Steve, is typical terrible Billy. By the end of this chapter he's starting to think gay might be a thing Steve is allowed to call him...in some circumstances.
> 
> Sorry to anybody wishing I'd just update one of my WIP already! I think I'm working through some Feelings about my family history on this one, and also, I'm stuck. 
> 
> I don't know when I'll get to a third chapter with all my gift WIPs. It might be a while! Subscribe and Ao3 will let you know when I eventually get a new chapter together, which might be a long time, or might not? Depends on whether I get any good ideas/rewatch/get completely frustrated with my WIPs. I think I know what the third chapter will be, but we'll see.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and particularly to the commenter who was so enthused she got me excited about writing this chapter, SionainnShay! Every comment or kudo is like a teeny bit of writer rocket fuel. I'm platypan on Tumblr, if you want an incessant stream of reblogs and enthusiastic replies to fic questions!
> 
> Darn Steve and his sexy..being sexy...traps! Billy: IS THIS A TRAP Steve: whuh..?


	3. Head trauma leading to mature discussions of personhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the reality of school, friends, and daylight, Steve copes with having kissed Billy Hargrove...mostly, by kissing him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice the chapter count has become four...sorry, it kept getting longer, and I thought I better post something now rather than wait another age to finish all in one swoop!
> 
> There won't ever be any depictions of physical abuse onscreen, I'm sliding along with third-party witnesses and implications, but this is an emotional chapter, so if you're worried about content, check the end notes!

“Hey.  You comin’ tonight?”  Billy leaned next to Steve’s locker, dripping from the shower, his towel in his hand.  

“Where?” Steve frowned over, then turned away to breathe in the stale smell of gym clothes, closing his eyes as the flourescent lights shone on Billy’s shoulders, abs, and smirk.  

“Carol’s.”  He leaned in, warm breath heating Steve’s ear, his voice dropped to barely audible.  “Beat me at darts and I’ll blow you in the laundry room.”

“What?”  Steve felt a grin forming, wondering whether Carol thought Billy was coming alone, and whether Tommy knew, but shook it off.  “Why the hell’d you tell me your dad murdered your mom, _Hargrove,”_ he hissed back.  “Hopper’s _pissed_.  He wasted his _whole weekend_ tracking her down.”

Billy took a slow breath, his whole body pulling back and tensing like he’d iced over.  Steve kept towelling his hair, jerking his head away as Billy slammed both lockers with a punch that left a smear of blood across the vents.  The coach’s voice shouted over, but Billy was already stalking out into the hall.  Half the basketball team ran after him.  Their laughter at his wet naked ass failed to alert poor Mrs. Durand coming around a corner--she yelped, holding a pile of folders in front of her face.  Billy knocked them aside to scream into her eyes, and shoved her into the wall.

“That dude’s hilarious,” Tommy beamed, and Steve stalked back in to ask the coach to see about Mrs. Durand.

 

A sharp knuckle in the back awoke Steve from blue-lit tunnels to the soft scratching of chalk at the front of the class.  

“You aren’t breathing,” Nancy whispered.  “Steve.”

He clapped his sweatshirt sleeve over his mouth in case of croaking noises, and focused on the page numbers copied out on the chalkboard.  They blurred, and Nancy smacked the back of his head.

 _“Steve,”_ she hissed, just as the bell rung, startling his lungs into action.

“I’m breathing now,” he smiled, ducking his head to sort out his bag, and she grabbed his shoulder.  

“Library.  Now.”

He considered, then nodded.  Nancy having a whole litter of kittens over his inattention in class sounded nearly as jarring against the Upside Down as breathing against Billy Hargrove’s jacket.

She drug him by the elbow anyway, stopping by the drinking fountain.  “Do you need some water?”

“Nah,” he rubbed his face, finding that imagining himself as a fainting, corseted heroine didn’t have much entertainment value.  Maybe if he told Billy later.

Her eyes narrowed, and she drug him on through the library doors, shoving him at a table.  “What’s going on,” she whispered.  “You were _better_.  Mike keeps answering calls and then asking whether you showed up to class, and then whether you stayed _through_ class, and then whether I saw you _after_ class, but I thought you looked better!”

“Oh,” he rolled his eyes, wondering whether Dustin, Will, or Max were checking up on him.  He dropped his bag on the table, dropping into a chair.  “No, I am--I’ve been sleeping better.”  She brought the full weight of extremely concerned eyebrows to bear, and he quailed.  “Last night was--long, I mean, I don’t know, what do you want me to say, Nancy?”

“You weren’t asleep, just now,” her nose wrinkled in concentration, and his stressed brain informed him she was still unfairly attractive.  “What’s going on, Steve?”

“That doesn’t happen as much, I’m really fine--”

“I know I haven’t really been around--”

“Oh, no, okay, Nance.  There were monsters, this isn’t about-- _us._  My house is way out there and it’s quiet and dark and lonely, and the snow looks like--” he frowned at a window. _Like the floaters in the air in the tunnels._

“I never thought I’d say this, but I wish the wind would kick up,” she inspected a hangnail.  “I’ve been using my curtains, even during the day, it’s silly.”

He snorted, jerking the zipper on his bag back and forth.  “Anyway, the little turds keep coming out to keep me company ‘cause they think they’re gonna find me dead on the floor because--”

She waited, raising her eyebrows, and he dropped his forehead to the table and groaned loudly enough for the librarian to smack a book loudly on her desk and clear her throat.  “Steve.”

“I can’t believe they haven’t told you,” he muttered.

 _“Steve,”_ she said again, and the cool table started to feel good against his hot face.   _“What_ didn’t they tell me.  I can get it out of Mike.”

“I like girls,” he informed her anxiously.  “I _do,_ it’s not-- _that,_ I mean, I’d still date you, it wasn’t _you--”_

Nancy jerked her head back, face squidged.  “Ew, Steve, whatever this is, why does my _little brother_ know about it?  _Gross.”_

 _That_ was enough to get his head off the table. _“Nasty,_ Nance,” he echoed her grimace.  “Not like _that.”_

“You aren’t making any sense,” she raised her eyebrows.

He took a deep breath, glad to see horrifying confessions were enough of a distraction for his lungs to engage.  “I’m, uh. I’m kinda, y’know...seeing Billy Hargrove.”

She snorted.  “Psyche!  Seriously, Steve.”

He clenched his teeth, glancing around, then whispered, “I am _kissing Billy Hargrove._  Look,” he leaned in, running his fingers along his jaw. _“Stubble burn.”_

“Oh my god,” she stared at him.

“I _know,”_ he let his head fall back, sliding down in his seat.

 _“Steve._ Oh my _god.”_

After a long silence, he lifted his head to look at her, pulling his bag closer as a barrier between them.  

She’d gone a little unfocused, her expression fixed.  “No wonder they’re--wait, no, that can’t be what _Mike_ knows.  He--what _happened,_  Steve.  Oh my _god.”_

He whined into the side of his bag.  “They left him in the _trunk_ of my _car!_ I took him back to my house, he just...he comes around now.  Like when you feed raccoons,” he looked up to see her shaking her head, smile stiff.

“That’s pretty _accurate_ , Steve, what if you don’t feed him one day and he _eats_ you?” she leaned in, face serious, as though the biggest danger with Billy was a shortage of Violent Stranger Kibble.

“I don’t think--” he paused as she reached over and took his hand.  

“Grace Olive Wiley was one of the most famous venomous snake handlers of all time,” she began, and he blinked.  “She claimed they were harmless if you trained them the right way, but she was bitten while posing with one for a picture.  It took her thirty seconds to pry it off her finger.  Steve.”

“He’s not _venomous,”_ he resisted the urge to pull her hand closer.  “I mean, like...I know he’s _terrible_ , but he hasn’t…” he let his face fall against his bag again.  “Did Mike tell you anything about Billy’s dad?  Max’ stepdad?”

“No,” she pulled her hand back, leaning in, eager as ever for new information, and he grinned at the familiarity.

“Max says--” he stopped, biting his lips while he considered.  “He beats the shit out of him.  Like, all the time.  I think he broke a bottle or something over his head?  He showed up covered in broken glass and cooking sherry.”  She blinked slowly.  “And I _know_ cooking sherry, because--you know Tammy Ives, she was my first kiss, we’d been drinking cooking sherry.”

Nancy appeared to be biting back an explosion of laughter.

“Billy doesn’t drink _cooking sherry_ , it’s _salty,_ and anyway, he smelled more like--”

“I believe you, Sherlock,” she said around her fingers, her shoulders shaking with giggles.  “I have never drunk cooking sherry, you’re the expert witness--but _Steve,_ you can’t just--he beat the shit out of _you,_ you can’t just--”

“I knoooow,” he moaned into his bag.  “He’s convinced I got Barb pregnant, killed her with a nailbat, and...buried her in the woods?  I think?”

Her mouth hung open.

“I know!  But he knows I’m lying about what I used the nailbat _for--”_

“He’s seen your bloody nailbat?” she asked weakly.  “Why…” Steve waited, but she just shook her head, leaning her face in her hands.

“It’s a colossal mess,” he sighed.  “I think he thinks I’m scarier than he is?”

“And that’s... _impressive?”_ she gripped her notebook.  

“He thinks Hopper helped me cover it up,” he rubbed his face.  “I don’t know what to _tell_ him, the truth is--”

“Out,” she agreed.  “Truth is out. Why does he…” she scrunched her nose up at him, and he shrugged, waiting.  “If he thinks you’re a _murderer,_ why does he want to--” it was her turn to glance around, whispering.  “Why does he want to _kiss_ you?!”

“I don’t _know,”_ he whispered back.  “Why do _I_ want to kiss _him?”_

She pressed her hands together under her chin, pursing her lips as though there was an answer in her mental card catalog that would make everything make sense.

“I think we’re both like...half gay, Nancy,” he whispered, holding his hands around his mouth to keep the soundwaves from informing half the library.

“But he’s _terrible,”_ she whispered back.  “Have you ever wanted to kiss _Jonathan?”_

“No,” he shook his head, wide-eyed.  “No, I swear, Nancy, I absolutely do not wanna kiss your boyfriend--”

“I’m not _worried_ about it,” she rolled her eyes.  “Jonathan’s not like that--” she frowned at him.  “It’s _bisexual,_ by the way, not--not _half gay.”_  

“It is?” he asked, voice thready.  “People are...that?”

She reached over and squeezed his hand.  “I’m trying to figure out what Mike knows now, because if he knew you were kissing _Billy Hargrove_ I don’t think he’d be _worried.”_

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.  

“Actually I’m wondering, now, _are_ you bisexual?  Have you ever been attracted to another man?  Because it’s _Billy,_ Steve.  _Hargrove._ What you might be is _crazy.”_

“That’s probably true too,” he hugged his bag to his chest.  “He helps, though.  He’s just--I can’t think about--things--when Billy’s there stinking like cigarettes and cooking sherry.”

“Buy a _dog,”_ she suggested, raising her eyebrows.  “Come over.  Y’know what, I’ve been stealing my mom’s horrible vanilla candles, my room smells like the bathroom in a furniture store, it's very...distracting.”

“Those were _rank,_ where does she even--”

“You could ask somebody normal out.  You’re still popular.”

“I can’t date anybody that _knows,_ though,” he stared back, and she swallowed, lowering her eyes.  “And anybody else is gonna ask about the…” Nancy waited, and he cleared his throat.  “I’m weird now, I barely sleep, I do weird things with--marshmallows--”

“Mike mentioned the marshmallows,” her mouth quirked.  “I...guess that might have been something we thought was weird?  I don’t know what weird looks like to everyone else anymore.”

“Probably includes kissing Billy Hargrove,” he snorted into the bag, catching her giggles.  

“You could kiss Tommy,” she stuck her tongue out, nose wrinkled.  “I mean, bleah, but think about it, he might try to beat you up but he wouldn’t _win.”_

 _“Tommy,”_ he echoed back, wrinkling his nose.  

“He’s awful,” she leaned in convincingly.  “And _safer.”_

“...I could just watch _The Outsiders_ a few hundred more times,” he muttered into his bag, and she frowned.

“...Dallas Winston, isn’t it.  The scary one.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, feeling his neck start to flush.  “Shut up.  I saw you looking at Rob Lowe’s jawline too--”

“Jawlines,” she whispered.  “He does have a nice jawline, doesn’t he.  It’s just that Billy Hargrove is attached to the jaw.  What does _Mike_ know, though?  He didn’t catch you two _necking.”_

“No!” Steve shuddered.  “Just, uh. Billy keeps just...coming over?  And then the Goonies showed up--” she blinked, then waved him on, “--and he was there all night?  For their _sleepover.”_

“Oh my god,” she held her hands over her mouth.  “What’d you _do?”_

“I told him to go upstairs and they watched _Lord of the Rings--”_

“Eugh,” she stuck her tongue out.  “I was so relieved Lucas got sick of the singing goblins.”

 _“Will might know,”_ he whispered back.  “I drug Billy back inside by the hand--” one eyebrow raised at him, and he glared back at it, “--and Dustin and Mike were just doing that thing little cats and birds do, y’know, trying to scare Billy--” he leaned his head in his arms.

She blinked.  “...puffing up?  They were doing a threat display?  I can see it,” she cocked her head, grinning.  “Did Mike have his arms folded?”

“I don’t know, just Will was staring at our _hands,_ the others didn’t notice.”

“Do you want him to keep it a secret?  I can try to talk to him,” she wrinkled her nose thoughtfully, and Steve sighed over her freckles, feeling another flutter of relief that his sexuality wouldn’t be entirely Billy-Hargrove-directed in future.

“...I mean,” he bit his lips, the urge to protect his band of goblins throwing his brain back to barricading a bus.  His breath shuddered, and he rubbed his face.  “If I _was_ dating Jonathan--” they both screwed up their faces, “--and I don’t _want_ to, but if I _was,_ then...I’d probably have to tell them.  But if Dustin gets in Billy’s face about kissing me, Billy might,” he paused, tongue caught in a whorl of possibilities.  “Grab him.  Walk in front of a Mack truck.  Jesus, I don’t know.”

 _“Steve,”_ she reached over for his hands again.  “You don't need him around.  Come over after school.  I’ll give you some candles.  You’re going to get _hurt.”_

He snorted.  “It’s, I mean, it’s not…”

“Steve,” she repeated, eyes narrowing.  “He could have killed you.”

“I know, I know,” he let his head drop onto his backpack.

“I don’t want to have to shoot him,” she squeezed his hands, and Steve started giggling again.  

“Shit, Nancy,” he grinned up.  “What happened to our _lives.”_

 

The candles were, as advertised, _rank,_ and Nancy smuggled them to him through the bathroom window as he shielded his face below.  “She keeps accusing Dustin of taking them because she knows I hate ‘em,” she stage-whispered down.

“You should spray some of her perfume on him, next time,” Steve whisper-shouted back, and she buried her cackles in her forearm, before leaning out to throw him the bag.  When he got home, he realized he didn’t have anything to burn them in that he wasn’t kinda afraid would crack, or catch on fire.

 

With the promise of singing mice unfulfilled--Rescuers and Secret of NIMH had played through without him reaching more than a light doze, and even his secret weapon, a copy of Cinderella from the mail-in video club, had had no lasting effect--Steve took a hot shower.  Heat sometimes worked, though by the time he was drowsy the hot water heater was choking out its last burst of relaxation. The chill startled him into opening his eyes, rubbing his face, and scooting to turn off the water before yawning into a slump against the still-warm tiles.  Just as his eyes started to drift closed again, he blinked alert to a crash outside--glass, it sounded like, against the house.

He went alert like an herbivore, body still, ears straining, before catching a tuneless yell.  _“Billy,”_ he groaned, rubbing his face again.  “I was almost asleep, _Billy Hargrove.”_  At the sound of a second crash, he flapped a hand out along the wall and yanked a towel down on his head.  The air of his bedroom was frigid compared to the bathroom steam, and he stopped, shaking his head, then looped the towel up with his elbow and scrubbed it at his hair.  He sighed. He could hear the beat of a car radio, and muffled shouting. The window was reluctant to open, but Steve was vaguely glad he hadn’t hurried to the front door, because Billy Hargrove had a six-pack labeled ‘Bud Lite’ on his hood, and he was hucking beer bottles at the door.  “Billy!” he yelled.

Billy staggered against his car, fumbling with what looked like a rag in the top of the bottle.  It flamed up.

“Fucking Christ,” Steve groaned, letting his head drop against the sill.  _“Hargrove!”_

Billy swung to look around in a circle, dropped the flaming beer bottle (it went out), fell against his own car, and slid down to sit against the tire, wiping his nose against his wrist.   _“Fuck_ you, Harrington,” he yelled, fumbling to pick up the bottle.  “Fuck you! King!  King...Harrington!”  It’d rolled against his foot well within reach, but using the fingers provided at the end of his arms seemed to be presenting a challenge.

“It’s two o’clock in the _morning,”_ Steve shouted, then shut the window, shivering.  He huddled himself in the towel.  Another bottle crashed against the side of the house as he stumbled over the office chair on the way to the stairs, and Billy yelled some more, and then Steve opened the door.  He slammed it shut again against another flying bottle.

He began composing an explanation to Nancy in his head.  _It was sleep deprivation.  When I see him, my body knows if there were predators around he’d have been eaten, I think._

The doorknob rattled.  “Lemme _in,_ Harrington!”  Another impact shook the door as the phone started ringing.  Steve’s hair dripped freezing cold water into his ear, so he began drying it, wandering over toward the phone.  

“Heard a call over the radio about your place,” Hopper’s voice sounded too awake for the hour.  Steve stepped around the corner, yanking the cord so it whipped into the front room, in hopes Hopper wouldn’t be able to hear the yelling at the door.  

“Sorry?” Steve tried.  “Everything’s fine.”  Everything _was,_ was the thing, the adrenaline had cleared his head, his lungs were working like a well-tended racecar, and Billy was unlikely to set _anything_ on fire with a Molotov cocktail made of Bud Lite.

“Your neighbour Mrs. Williams saw flames,” Hopper waited, and Steve grimaced.  

“I’ll have to apologize for waking her up.”

“Heard crashing, too.”

Handily the door was thick.  Steve cupped his hand around the phone and his mouth, trying to keep the handset from picking up Billy’s screams.  “Everything’s fine here, but if it’s going to get quieter, I _really_ need to go,” he tried, gritting his teeth as it went briefly quiet outside, before there was another crash.

“Kid,” Hopper sighed.  “They’re sending a car by.”

“Shit,” Steve said into the handset, hung up, stared at it in horror, and ran to the door.  Maybe Dustin could relay apologies through Eleven.  He yanked it open.  _“Billy,_ for chrissake--”

Billy squinted at him.  

“Beer doesn’t burn, asshole,” Steve told him.  “Though since you haven’t figured that out, maybe I shouldn’t tell you, you might try again.  What the hell are you _doing?!”_

“Naked,” Billy snorted.   The bottle he’d dropped rolled against his foot, and he very slowly lifted his foot to let it roll under his car.  “You...you’re.”

“Yeah, man, you didn’t exactly _call ahead.”_

Billy tried to push up off the car and stand, staggered, and caught himself against the side mirror.   “I stole Carol’s tequila,” he stage-whispered, snickering, and Steve groaned as he tucked the towel around his waist.

“I’m glad you didn’t set  _that_  on fire. Somebody called the sheriff, you moron, are you here to…fight me?”

“No,” Billy shook his head, and grabbed at the door of his car as his knees bent.  “No.  Jus’ hate you.  Fuckhead. Harrington.  You--you got that _bat_ behind the door.   _Bastard.”_

“I don’t, but--” Steve watched Billy trying to get the lighter back into his jacket.  “How’d you make it here _alive,”_ Steve started to step outside, and Billy held up a hand.  

“Glass,” Billy walked around his car with a steadying hand on the hood to reach in and turn off the engine.  “...’s broken.  Glass.”

“Yeah, gee, Billy,” Steve yawned, leaning in the doorway.  “How’d that get there.  It sure is a mystery.  If you try and drive you’re gonna kill somebody.”

“Yeah,” Billy laughed, letting himself fall against the hood.  “I never wear a seatbelt.  Want me gone?”  He grinned over, slowly leaning back so his jacket fell open.  “Kiss me an’ tell me to go off the road, Herring. Harrington.”  He started giggling.  “Just hold my head--back--and tip the tequila in, you.  You _fuck.”_

“Billy,” Steve hissed.  “The police are coming, get in here.”

“...glass everywhere,” Billy wove his way over, stopping to rub his face and stare at the step up to Steve’s door.  “King Harrington.”

“Get _in_ here,” Steve waited, letting his head fall sideways to press against the edge of the door.  He let go as Billy reached the door, scrabbled at it, and it swung shut.  Steve yanked it open again just as Billy fell against it, half-catching him as his head slammed into the knob.  “...jesus, Billy, you alive?”

“Shit,” Billy curled in on himself, and Steve hauled him inside by his denim collar.  “Fuck, jesus, Harrington--”

“There were headlights--somebody called the police.”  Steve said, batting Billy’s hands away, trying to see whether the blow had drawn blood.  “I just--just needed to get you inside--”

“That for throwing bottles?”  Billy kept grabbing at Steve’s hands, trying to stop him from checking the point of impact with the doorknob.  “It’s _fine_ , I’m _sorry_ , _Harrington,_ shit--” he held his arms up between them, trembling.  “I get it, you _fucking_ asshole, you fucking--”

“You _fell_ _into the door,_ dipshit,” Steve yelled back.  

Billy started giggling into the floor.  “Barefoot,” he whispered.  “Barefoot King Harrington.”

“I tried to _catch_ your drunk ass!”  Steve shoved him further across the floor into the kitchen, and Billy slapped his hands on the floor to brake.  “I didn’t _slam your head_ into the knob, Hargrove,” he let himself slide to the floor next to the denim menace, face against the linoleum.  Billy’s breath smelled like tequila.

“Soooo sorry I threw bottles at your pretty house,” Billy whispered back, lowering his arms to wipe blood away from his right eye.  “Where’s the _bat,_ you asshole.  Shithead.”

“Why the hell _were_ you throwing bottles at my house, dipshit?” Steve reached over to thumb another trickle of blood off Billy’s cheek.  

Billy flinched back and grabbed his hand, twining their fingers.  “...Tommy showed up.”

Steve rolled to his back, sniggering, staring at the ceiling.  “So was it a party, or like a mutual belt-notching--”

“’Gives a shit.  Come on, _Harrington,”_  Billy kissed Steve’s captive hand.  His lips were warm and soft, and Steve groaned, rubbing his face with the hand Billy wasn’t imitating fellatio on.  His tongue was _incredibly_ distracting, supple and hot and wet, and Steve could feel his dick starting to prop up his towel.

 _“Billy,”_ Steve rolled to face him again, partially to hide his tent.  “C’mon. What’s going on?”

“You suck,” Billy grinned back, dissolving into giggles again.  “I could suck.”

“Are you _high,”_ Steve sighed.  “Don’t answer that.  Come on, budd-uh, Billy.”

“Yeah,” Billy let himself get hauled to his feet, stumbling toward the couch.  

Steve pulled Billy’s hand from where it’d slid up his thigh under the towel.  “Come on, you’re bleeding.  Lie down.”  Billy tried to pull him down, patting clumsily at Steve’s naked chest and shoulders.  “No, come on, just lie back, I’ll be right back--”

When Steve ran off upstairs to grab the first aid kit, Billy yelled more slurred insults and apologies after him, and Steve pressed his face into his pillow for a long second and whined.  He glared down at his crotch. _Think less about his tongue and more about the blood running down his face,_ he thought at his dick, then sighed.  “Also remember he just tried to set my house on fire with _beer_ and lost a fight with my doorknob.”  His dick was mildly discouraged by these truths.  Before running back downstairs--Billy had started singing his name as the lyrics to ‘My Sharona’, so it didn’t seem _urgent--_ he kicked his wet towel off.  After a moment of thought, he grabbed a second sweatshirt for Billy.  “Steve Har- _ring-_ ton~” warbled from below.

When he got back downstairs, Billy was on the floor by the TV pulling videocassettes off the shelves, the discards forming a wall around him.  “Haunted car,” he muttered, shoulders hunching as Steve walked back in. “What’s this say?”

“God, you’re so drunk.  Come on, lie down, you’re shaking.” Steve dropped to lean against him, sliding an arm around Billy’s tight shoulders.  He tugged the videotape out of Billy’s hand, leaning in to lick his ear when Billy wouldn’t let go.

Billy went still, staring back.  

 _“Christine?_  It’s a stupid movie,” Steve warned, raising his eyebrows.  “You’ll love the car--”

Billy drug him closer by the front of his sweatshirt.  Steve blinked, swallowing, but tilted his head into the open-mouthed kisses Billy pressed across his face.  Piled videos fell as Steve swung his leg over Billy’s lap, sliding his hand up into Billy’s hair on the side he wasn’t bleeding.

“You’re still bleeding, babe,” he ran his fingers through Billy’s curls, pulling him close to breathe against his collar.  “Come up on the couch.  I’ll clean you up.”

“Not your ‘babe’,” Billy leaned in for another kiss.  “You still pretending I’m Lady Nancy?”

“There’s a position as Queen open,” Steve offered, anticipating the elbow-in-the-gut-shove combo.  He snickered, watching Billy wobble to his feet and stalk off to the couch.  “I dunno, you’re practically twins and all.  Not really used to kissing somebody I wouldn’t date.”

“Just--just _attacked your castle_ , Majesty,” Billy leaned his face into the back of the couch, huffing a laugh, and Steve wandered over.  He picked up the aid kit.  “I can.  I c’n leave. Park somewhere.  Sleep it off.  Now say _sorry.”_

“Noooope, what the hell, you're such an asshole,” Steve scooted close, but let Billy see him put his hand up to inspect the damage.  

Billy shuddered at his touch, but leaned into it, letting his eyes slide closed.  “...says _you.”_

“Oh, yeah, you’re great, we should definitely trade letter sweaters and share milkshakes,” Steve snorted, running his thumb over Billy’s cheek.  “Just a second. Blood’s getting all in your hair, I’m gonna--” he pressed a wad of gauze to it, guiding Billy to lie down with his head in Steve’s lap.

“Wha’s happening,” Billy cleared his throat, sliding his hand under his head to brush most of his mullet out from under his head.  

“I think it’s mostly a bruise,” Steve pulled his attention away from the length of Billy’s eyelashes and surveyed him with the knowledge he, Jonathan, and Nancy had gained by frantically cramming first aid books over winter break.  “I’ll keep pressure on it until it stops bleeding.”

“Fuck do you care, you’re such a prick,” Billy muttered into his sweatpant leg.  

“You’re in my _lap_ , dipshit, what are you even talking about,” Steve ignored the phone ringing again.

Billy tried to bite his thigh through his jeans.  “Harrington, you-- _fucking_ fucker.”

“Are you actually _mad_ at me?  Because _you_ rammed your head into my door, not me--” Steve ran his fingers through the unbloodied sections of Billy’s hair, feeling him scoot closer.  “I can’t even tell, stop grinning!  You tried to set my _house on fire,_ and I’m like ‘What happened, Carol run out of wine coolers?’”

 _“Fuck_ you,” Billy choked, punching his leg again.  Drunk as he was, it didn’t particularly hurt.  “She said you were coming.”

“That’s weird as hell--hey, hey hey hey,” Steve pressed more gauze over where it had shifted, ignoring the phone ringing _again_.  Billy muttered something, turning his head against Steve’s sweatshirt, and Steve’s mouth dropped open.  “Are you--are you _chanting_ ‘I hate you’?!  After you come _over_ here, you--I’m not forgetting about the _fire--_ which you suck at--”

 _“Fuck_ you, I do, I _hate_ you,” Billy whispered thickly, trying to bat Steve’s arm away before resting his own arm across it to hide his face.  _“So_ much, _fuck_ you, just--just _die,_ you fucking--bitch _bastard--”_

“Shit!  Shit, don’t--” Steve bit his lips together.  _If I say ‘don’t cry,’ he’ll turn this whole house into a mushroom cloud._  He let his fingers slide around the back of Billy’s skull, pulling him in close, and the soft shaking and sniffles got louder until Billy punched the back of the couch a few times to drown them out.  “Hey,” Steve tried again, when Billy’s breath was evening out, and he kinda wanted him to come up to blow his nose.  “What happened.  Did your dad--”

“She’s not _dead,”_ Billy punched his leg again.  “It was all--it was _true._ He told me…”  Beginning to feel bruised, Steve felt his eyes narrow, considering just dumping Billy in Hopper’s yard with a bow around his upper torso.  “She’s--she’s not dead, I thought he--he _said_ she left.  Kept _telling_ dumbshit Billy she left.  I thought _no way_ she’d fucking just--just leave me there _,_ she wouldn’t--she’s my _mom--”_

“...oh, oh shit, oh fuck,” Steve breathed, feeling his eyes go wide.

“I thought--he kept--thought he killed her,” Billy punched the back of the couch again, without much leverage since his knees were drawn up.  “I’m so fucking dumb.  I just…”

“She left him _and_ you,” Steve said, aloud, like a genius, and Billy’s shoulders started shaking again.  

“Sh-shut your _fucking_ face, Steve,” he hissed.  “She _fucking..._ walked away.  I keep thinking she didn’t know, right?  Maybe he wasn’t like that before.  Then _I_ fucking came along.”  Billy’s fingers slid under Steve’s shirt, but he was grabbing fistfuls of fabric.  “This fucking _idiot_ kid, fucking faggot piece of shit Billy Hargrove, she just--didn’t--she wanted a _kid_ but not--”

“Jesus,” Steve leaned to look at the clock, and added another wad of gauze where red was seeping through.

“Just that--that fucking--he never hits _Max--_ she took a good look at this stupid little cunt and left town--”

“You’re not,” Steve said, clenching his jaw.  “Shut up, no, that’s not--jesus, Billy--”

“Then she _knew,_ fuckhead,” Billy smacked the couch again.  “She knew he’d--she _knew_ what he’d--but it was _me_ so she didn’t give a _shit,_ she probably just--couldn’t _wait_ ‘til I caught the bus--counting the minutes, is he fucking gone yet?  Never have to see _his_ face again--”

“No, I just mean, yeah, you’re _Billy Hargrove--”_

“Shut the _fuck_ up, _King Harrington--”_ Billy tried to shove away, punching his arm, and Steve caught him around the shoulders and braced them both against the floor with his legs. 

“No!  No, Billy, listen, c’mon, you _are_ a--just--a complete piece of _shit,_ but you’re a _person_ , you don’t--nobody deserves that.  I just meant--I’m sorry, jesus,” Billy was half sliding onto the floor, but he submitted to being hauled mostly against Steve’s shoulder, his forearm covering his wet laughter.  “He didn’t just start that-- _bullshit_ because you’re _you_ , she didn’t do--do whatever shit because you’re just--I mean, you’re _garbage_ , but you’re a _human being--”_

Billy’s giggles sounded wet.  “Yeah, right, genius,” he sniffled. “--I fucking _know_ I’m trash, asshole--”

“But you’re a _person,_ you were a little kid, right, she wouldn’t--”

“I’m a _garbage_ person,” Billy laughed harder.  “Garbage Pail Kid.  They shoulda just taken me to the pound.”  

Steve honestly couldn’t tell whether he was arguing or not, and suspected Billy didn’t know either.  Just as he opened his mouth to point out that 100% of humans had been pissed off at children and _most_ had managed not to belt them across the face, there was the beep of a siren pulse in the drive.  Steve grabbed Billy’s hand and made him hold his own gauze, scooting out to run to the door.  “Stay _quiet,”_ he called back over his shoulder.  “I’ll get rid of them, but they can’t see you.”  Billy snorted loud enough to carry to the door, and Steve rolled his eyes as he unlocked it, squinting out into the flashlight of one of the deputies.

“We got a noise complaint,” the man called, slowly crunching across the snow-covered glass.  “Mind turning on the porch light?”

“We just have the motion detectors,” Steve blocked the door, smiling.  “Sorry.  Drunk friend showed up.  He’s passed out, noise is over.”

“Lot of broken glass out here.  Your friend wouldn’t happen to be Billy Hargrove, would he?”  Steve heard a soft “Fuck,” from the living room, and braced himself in the door.  “We got a call saying he was drunk and disorderly.  Is that _blood_ on your face, Mr. Harrington?”

“It’s really late,” Steve felt his smile going stiff.  “I’ve got school tomorrow.  Everything’s fine.  Can I go back to bed now?”

“I’d feel more comfortable if I had a look around,” the deputy aimed the flashlight into the room behind Steve, and Steve sent a prayer up to God or aliens that Billy wouldn’t be looming behind him, blood dripping from his hair, his eyes gleaming in the light.

“Uh, no,” Steve’s lungs, finally showing up for work, were making up the time, and he gripped the frame of the door on both sides to keep his hands from shaking.  _Hopper is gonna shoot me in both feet,_ he thought, but he was also fairly sure he didn’t want to turn Billy in for assault on his house with a weaponized six pack of Bud Lite, and have his front room turn into the Tet Offensive when a hapless sheriff’s deputy tried to arrest a crying, drunken Billy Hargrove.  “It won’t happen again.  Thank you for coming out, but I’d really like to get to sleep.”

After a couple more refusals--Steve stopped fearing Hopper’s disapproval, he found, when he had to shout at the man to get him to leave--he finally closed the door again on the receding taillights of the police cruiser, and returned to kneel on the floor next to the couch.  

“You just got in a fight with a sheriff’s deputy,” Billy’s mouth was quirked.  “Why--?”

“You ever hit Max?” Steve asked over him.

“Not...really,” Billy frowned, and winced.

“Have you ever _intentionally hurt Max,_ Hargrove, it’s not a complicated question,” Steve rubbed his face, leaning his back against the couch and staring at Billy’s ring of movies.

“...I won’t,” Billy’s breathing had gone shallow.  “I won’t, Harrington, fuck, don't--”  

The phone rang again.

“Because you know who hits kids is your fuckhead dad,” Steve ignored it.  “And you went straight for Lucas--”

 _“Fuck_ you, Harrington, I’m not my dad, shut up,” Billy flailed, and Steve grabbed his wrists, pressing the gauze back down.  It wasn’t difficult.  Billy’s skin was pale and sweaty, and Steve took a look at his fixed grin and reddened eyes and sighed, burying his head in the seat cushion.  

The phone rang again, and Steve let Billy’s wrists go, stomped over, and unplugged it, before returning to frown at the gauze, and unroll some fresh.  “Even if you’re pissed at me.  Don’t take a swing at a person.  Come…” he snorted.  “Chuck bottles at my house, I guess.”

“What,” Billy sounded hoarse.

“Come on.”

“I’m not my dad, you _fuck._ I’m not gonna throw bottles at your house.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, slowly turning to look at the front door.  

“Fuck you,” Billy curled up tighter.

“Come on, babe-buddy.  If you get mad, I’ll--we can play a half-court game, or something.  Come get me.”

“Fuck it out of me,” Billy snorted, grinning at him, and Steve took a deep breath, trying not to imagine grabbing Billy earlier that day, and slamming him back into the lockers before he stomped out into the hallway.  Grabbing him by the hair and kissing him until he went warm and pliable.

“Jesus, Billy,” he let his head thump Billy’s shoulder, feeling him laugh.

“Should find a girlfriend who doesn’t care if I suck you off behind the gym,” Billy whispered into his ear.  “Carol thinks it’s hot.”

Steve stared at him.  “You told her? That--that you want to--”

“Fuck no.  I asked about you and Tommy, she said she could take us all.”

“Tommy’d beat your--nah, you could take him,” Steve ran his knuckles over Billy’s abs, sliding up under the jacket where Billy’s ribs were damp and cold with blood loss.

“I could take him,” Billy grinned, his teeth bloody.

“I wouldn’t date somebody else and fuck you,” Steve wrinkled his nose, and Billy reached out for a handful of his sweatshirt again, pulling him in to smell blood and tequila.

“It’s just dumpsters back there,” Billy whispered against his mouth.  “Just garbage.”

“Christ, babe,” Steve kissed back, his stomach clenching.  He pulled back, and Billy’s arm slammed into his hands, knocking them away.  

 _“Fuck_ you, St--”  

Steve slapped his hand over Billy’s mouth again, trying to string words together.  “You’re not gonna hurt anybody, right?”

The couch squeaked as Billy punched his wrist again, growling, his eyes tearing up, but Steve held his head.  “Shake your head or nod.  Yeah.  Okay.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed.  

“Just wait a second, listen.  You’ll come to me if you’re feeling like--” he risked letting go to wave at the door, and Billy closed his eyes.  “Billy.  Come on.  Even if I’m who you’re mad at.”

Billy nodded shortly, swallowing.

“Okay,” Steve took a deep breath.  “Then you’re not a garbage asshole.  You’re gonna _try.”_  He kept his hand over Billy’s loud snort.  “Right?  You’re good.”

Billy smacked his hand away.  “I’m _good.”_

“You’ll get better.  You won’t be fucking-- _trash,_ like your dad.”

“You don’t fucking think that.”  Billy’s voice was hoarse. “Shut the _fuck_ up, you’d fucking beat my face in--”

“I’m serious, you suck because you’re an asshole, nobody’s _born_ \--”

“You don’t fucking have to tell me this shit,” Billy pulled away, pressing the gauze to his head so he could sit up.  “I’ll...I’ll fucking _be a good boy,_ you won’t have to hit me in the face with the nailbat.  You coulda just.”  He laughed, leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder.  

“Just what,” Steve leaned his head against Billy’s.  

“Fuck you,” Billy sighed, and Steve echoed it.

“I’m just saying.  You can’t have been born a shitheel.”

“Try me,” Billy snorted.

“Look, if any kid’s _that_ much of an annoying little shit I’d’ve murdered one by now,” Steve whispered into Billy’s hair, prompting a snicker.  “I’ve _saved_ them from--the--and that little bastard Mike _still_ looks at me like I should be fired from life.  If I was _gonna_ beat on a kid, their heads would look like cranberry salad. _”_

“What’d you save ‘em from, Steve Harrington,” BIlly slurred, and Steve smacked his own face.

“My _point_ is, if you don’t hit kids, you don’t fucking hit kids.”

Billy blew his nose in Steve’s sweatshirt, and Steve yelped, grabbing a throw pillow and smacking him in the butt with it.  

Billy cackled.  “...you wanna hit _this_ instead?”  He shoved the gauze away, sitting up to turn a slow grin on Steve that had his pants feeling tighter, and his lower belly clenching with heat.  Billy leaned in, sliding his arms around Steve’s neck, and smelling like tequila and aftershave.  For once, he didn’t taste like cigarettes.  His face was wet and salty, and warm, and smooth-shaven, and Steve lost track of words for a few seconds kissing it.  “We could fuck,” Billy whispered into his kisses.   “Right now. You can’t even hurt me right now,” he slid off the couch to straddle Steve’s lap, nearly falling off and braining himself further on the coffee table.

Steve grappled him back upright.  “What the hell.  Shut up, Billy, lie back down--”

“I’ve done it before,” Billy rocked against his lap.  His ass was warm and heavy with muscle in his tight jeans, and Steve lost all power of thought.  Billy kept whispering against his neck.  “I’m feeling no pain, Stevey, I’m so numb.”  He bit at Steve’s lips, his breaths coming quick.  “I’ll be so good for you, Majesty.  S’tight in there, doesn’t get much traffic.  Nothing like it.”

“God--” Steve snorted, clapping his mouth shut before the ‘ _\--no, what the fuck, what do you mean you’re numb,’_ escaped into the air, pretty certain he needed to actually think about what he said before Billy Hargrove broke his jaw, stomped his drunk ass outside, and drove into a tree.  Billy’s hair felt drippingly wet, and he jerked his hand back.  “Goddamn, you’re bleeding _everywhere._ Come on, man, lay back down.”

“You _fucking_ want to,” Billy snarled, grabbing the front of Steve’s pants, and yanking on his zipper.  

Steve grabbed his hands.  “Fucking _hell,_ Hargrove--”  

“Come on, I’m _cold,_ ” Billy kissed him again, trying to jerk his arms out of Steve’s grip.  “C’mon, Steve,” he leaned in as much as he could with all their arms between them.  “Your hands are warm.  S’just your dick in a tight hole, doesn’t make you a fa--”

“Jesus, Billy--” Steve kissed him back, licking into Billy’s mouth every time he drew breath to talk.  He started tasting blood, a little tang at the edge of his mouth, then sticky down the side of his face, then dripping down his chin.   _“Billy._ We gotta stop the bleeding.”

Billy laughed, curling into him, his muscles soft the way they went when Steve grabbed his hair.  

Steve shivered, carefully letting go.  He’d squeezed handprints into Billy’s forearms.   _Like he was making out with Sylvester Stallone again,_ he thought, biting his lips.  “Lie down, babe,” he leaned to grab the gauze.  “I’ll keep pressure on it, and we can do whatever when you’re not _bleeding out from a head wound.”_

“Keep calling me cute names,” Billy muttered.  “You dumbshit.  I’m not your _girlfriend._ ”

“Nooooo,” Steve stepped to the other end of the couch, not trusting Billy Hargrove’s head in his lap facing his dick.  He beckoned him down, layering gauze in his hand. “Sorry.  Dickhead.”

Once the bleeding finally had really, truly stopped, Billy scrambled away from his lap, stomping over to the magic circle of videos and tossing Christine.  

“You just want me to put it on so you can steal the best seat,” Steve rolled his eyes, and sure enough, once the previews started, his corner spot was taken.  He dropped against Billy’s side. Billy’s hair felt crispy with blood as Steve slid an arm around him. “You sure you don’t want a shower?”

Billy shook his head, closing his eyes, and Steve got up to get him some aspirin.

 

Steve snickered through Christine, grinning when he caught Billy watching him.  “What?”

“Nothing,” Billy drained his beer can, and began prying off the tab.  

Onscreen, the haunted ‘57 Plymouth was gnashing its hood, and Steve let his head fall against Billy’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

“Harrington,” Billy elbowed him.

“Mmm,” Steve scooted away to lie down, politely ignoring Billy’s weird swallowed choke.

 _“King Steve,”_ Billy hissed.  “Your _Majesty._ Get your head out of my lap.”

“Nuh,” Steve rolled his eyes.  “Get over it.”  He fell into a light doze when Billy didn’t shove him off, waking to fingers prodding his head.

“...movie’s over,” Billy slurred, half-asleep, and still drunk.

“Fix it,” Steve shrugged, turning away from the light and sound to bury his face against Billy’s stomach.  The denim was uncomfortable, so he burrowed in against the smooth abs, wondered whether they were damp from his breath, or if Billy was still cold-sweating with tension, and kissed them open-mouthed before licking across with the full width of his tongue.  Billy shouted “Fuck” a few times in a high wheezy voice, and shoved Steve’s head, scrabbling sideways over the arm of the couch.

“Fucking Harrington _Steve fuck,”_ Billy swayed, panting, his arms folded over his stomach.  “What the _hell.”_

Steve felt like he hadn’t slept in a year, which made everything funnier.  “You’re salty,” he sniggered, half off the couch, and shoved himself back up.

“Shut up,” Billy sidled around the couch and clicked rewind, his face lighting with the black and white noise of a disconnected TV.  

“Ants,” Steve muttered into the pillows.  “How come _you_ can kiss _me.”_

“Shut it, Harrington,” Billy knelt to frown at the shelf of movies.  “What’s this. Alien?”

“S’good,” Steve sighed, rolling on to his back to frown at the ceiling.  

 

Alien did not lend itself to another nap.  As soon as the room lit with blue light, Steve could feel the hair on his arms rising.  The passages in the ship were white, and shiny, but the mysterious creatures and the blue had him up off the couch, pulling off his bloodied sweatshirt.  “I need to go have a look around,” he tossed the shirt, ignoring Billy’s head cock.  There was a scrabbling behind him and the TV switched off.

“What are you doing?” Billy followed him into the garage, chugging the last of his can of beer.  

“It’s fine, you should stay.”  The sound of Billy crushing the can against the unbloodied side of his head brought him back, a bit, and he came over.  “...you look like I hit you with the bat.”

“Who cares,” Billy grinned at him.  

“Go put that sweatshirt on,” Steve pointed, taking a deep breath of Eau de Drunk Billy and feeling himself smile.  “There’s _snow,_ man, c’mon.”

“Yeah, mom.”  

It was snowing _again_ , making Steve’s skin prickle at the lightly falling fluff in the dim bluish light, but Billy bumped their shoulders, and Steve leaned in to kiss his face, twining their fingers together.

“What,” Billy pulled away, unzipping the sweatshirt--it had blood on it, Steve realized, Billy’d grabbed the one he'd discarded, not the clean one--and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.  Steve circled him to zip it up, but Billy frowned, turning away. His lighter was flicking too fast, and Steve dropped the bat, sliding his arms around Billy from behind to zip up the sweatshirt.  Billy’s ear was hot against his cheek, and Steve dodged away from his flailed smack, laughing. He swiveled back when Billy started coughing after a drag on his cigarette.

“You okay over there?”   

“Lemme alone,” he coughed again, bending to brace himself against his knees.  “Just swallowed wrong.  Somebody.  Somebody _hugged_ me.  What.  What are you,” he flapped a hand and Steve took it, grinning.  “What was that. I’m up now, give my hand back.”

“I’ll hold it,” breath billowed as Steve grinned back at him.

“We’re _outside,”_ Billy hissed.  

“I only have one neighbor,” Steve kicked the handle of the bat back up and grabbed it.  “That smells nothing like a tunnel.”

“What?!”

“You smell good,” Steve pulled him close, breathing in his hair.

“Shut up,” Billy snorted.  “I fucking don’t, stop lying.”

“You know that’s the sweatshirt you blew your nose in,” Steve bumped his shoulder, and Billy glared, then spat to the side.

They crunched through the snow all the way around the house to the edge of the woods, Billy lighting cigarettes serially partly because they were warm.  “What are we even looking for,” he asked again, and Steve shrugged, squeezing his hand.

“Nothing, really, just makes me feel better.”

 

The small house on the way to Steve’s was entirely lit up.  Resonant barking shook the door.  Once they’d climbed the steps, Steve pushed Billy behind him, feeling him go stiff again.  After a few rounds of thumping, the door opened on a slow-moving woman with a cane, a huge smile, and white curly buns on the sides of her head.  She clasped Steve’s pale hand in both her gnarled brown ones, and then pulled him in for a hug.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Williams,” he patted her back, waving over her shoulder to one of several pitbulls.  

“What on earth,” she whispered, then saw Billy as Steve stepped out of the way.  “Good heavens.  Is this your boyfriend?” her eyebrows were nearly at her hairline, and Steve tugged Billy close and clapped a hand over his mouth before he got a reply out.  

“This is Billy,” Steve used the hand over Billy’s mouth to make him nod, and Billy stomped his foot.  

“Is everything...all right?” she narrowed her eyes at their clasped hands, then Billy’s bloody face.  “That’s not fresh?”

“He fell,” Steve was bent over one of the dogs, hands under her ears to flap them gently.  “He’s not my boyfriend.  We didn’t see anything out there tonight.”

“Bless you,” she squeezed his shoulder, eyes narrowed at Billy, who rolled his shoulders, shrugging his charm on like a cape.  “I won’t say a word, you know.”

“A pleasure, ma’am, thanks for worrying about this idiot,” Billy nodded politely to the dogs, and Steve snorted.  “Let go of my hand,” Billy hissed, but didn’t pull away.  “What are you, some kind of suburbian superhero?” he frowned around while she brought over a cut glass bowl of hard candies masquerading as strawberries.  

Steve accepted one, locked eyes with Billy, and slid it quickly in his jean pocket.  Rolling his eyes, Billy unwrapped his, popping it in his mouth, ignoring Steve’s urgent headshake.  Once they accepted, she sat the plate down to pat the pitbulls on either side of her chair.

“I know about the mountain lions, honey,” Mrs. Williams said, and Steve nearly crushed Billy’s hand.

“Uh, what?” Steve forced his lungs to laugh, ignoring Billy’s side-eye.  

“Your little friend Dustin came by and asked me to keep an eye on you.”  She turned her smile on Billy, patting the closest pitbull.  “I had to clean up what was left of Sneezy, and Prancer here’s sister Blitzen, after all.”  Billy, who’d just stuck candy in his mouth, choked, coughing.  “These are Prancer, Florence Ballard, and Diana Ross. I do wish you’d brought the bodies to me, dear, my darling’s work made me a dab hand at taxidermy.”  

Prancer wriggled toward Steve on her stomach, and he reached down to stroke her ears.  “I mean, I used a nailbat, ma’am,” he kept his eyes on the dog, hoping Billy didn’t choke to death on horrible hard candies.  “There wasn’t much left.  Uh.”  When he glanced up, Mrs. Williams was patting Florence Ballard, and Billy was mouthing furiously at him.  

“He also told me about the bus,” Mrs. Williams smiled at Steve’s spluttering, and rocked herself upright again.  “Would you like some hot chocolate, honey?”

Steve nodded, crawling down half-under the couch to bury his face in Prancer's belly.  She was missing a leg after her run-in with the demodogs.  

“Oh, that’s from the lions too,” he heard her telling Billy, who sprang up to follow her into the kitchen.  Steve breathed in the smell of clean pitbull fur.

 

When Steve finally lifted his head, unable to relax while Billy received _Dustin’s_ version of events, he sidled up to listen through the door.  _I bet he told her I had a sword, and swung in with my merry men, on a vine,_ he thought, leaning his head into the kitchen.

“More marshmallows, and he likes three spoons of instant coffee in there,” Billy was explaining, leaning against the counter to show off his abs and folded biceps, and smirking at her through his lashes.  Steve covered his grin, coughing.

“My,” she glanced up, and Steve couldn’t resist stepping up slowly to slide his arms around Billy’s waist.  

As expected, he went tense.   _“Harrington._ I think a shard of this candy just punctured my tongue. _”_

“I tried to warn you,” Steve whispered, biting his ear gently.  “You remember my hot chocolate recipe.”

Billy pushed his face away, and Mrs. Williams beamed between them.  “Yeah, Steve, I can make hot chocolate.  There’s a mix, it’s not hard.”

“It’s kinda complicated,” Steve whispered in his ear.  “Even Dustin doesn’t get it just right.”

“Wow, I can _add water,”_ Billy snorted.  “She didn’t even have any candy canes.”

 _I don’t need them, I have you,_ Steve thought, aware his smile was getting goofy.  He accepted the chocolate, which was exactly correct, and sighed, squeezing Billy against him.

By the time Mrs. Williams had given Steve another tight hug--“Answer your _phone,_ child,” she chastised, and he hunched his shoulders--and they’d began walking home, it was dawn.  The snow still looked like the floaty crap in the tunnels.   _At least the world isn’t blue._ Steve stumbled up the steps, unlocking the door, pushing it open, and sitting in it.  He let himself fall back, his legs hanging outside in the snow.

Billy snorted, grabbed his hands, and drug him inside, dropping to lie next to him.  “Mountain lions,” he said to the ceiling.

“I guess,” Steve sighed, rubbing his face.  “Maybe don’t wake her up again, she’s tough, but I think she thought you beat me to death.”

“She thought I was your _boyfriend,”_ Billy snorted.  “What the hell.  Whatever the hell this _is--”_ he waved at Steve, then the bat, “--you gotta stop touching me.  Out there.”

“It’s actually a good story,” Steve rubbed his face.  “Reason to be around.  Yelling shit.”

“...when did you even sleep last,” Billy tucked his elbow under him, frowning over.  “You’re--you’re fucking-- _hallucinating._ If you think telling people that shit is a _good idea._ How long has it _been.”_

“In your lap.”

“...for real, fucker, when did you get a night’s sleep, you look like I punched back.”

“...whatever.  I don’t know.  I’m telling.  I’m calling ‘em,” Steve started crawling on his elbows, and Billy grabbed his arm.

“You are _tripping balls_...you should stay _home,”_ Billy pressed a hand to Steve’s forehead, squinting in the light from the door.  “Maybe you’re sick.”

At the feeling of Billy trying to take his temperature, Steve had started giggling.  “Okay, okay.  Fine.”

“...do you want a ride to school?  You shouldn’t _drive,”_ Billy asked, staring towards the phone.

“...I dunno, are we both gonna die?” Steve looked over.  “Are you sobered up enough?”

“I gotta pick Max up anyway,” Billy leaned over, letting his head rest against Steve’s chest.  “Had a beer like...two hours ago.”  He sighed.  “Feel like I’m gonna fuckin’ die, actually.”

Steve snorted, sliding his hand down Billy’s spine.  “You kinda smell like it.”

“Fuck you,” Billy mumbled into his chest.

“But yeah, I’ll take a ride.  We can keep each other awake.”

“I’d kill God for some sunglasses,” Billy groaned.

“Didn’t know you needed a reason,” Steve checked the kitchen clock before letting his eyes slide shut.  

Twenty-three minutes later, his alarm went off upstairs, and Billy curled into a fetal ball of muttered profanity before staggering to the bathroom.  He didn’t latch the door, so the sound of vomiting came through clearly.  Steve slowly rolled onto his face, then clambered to his hands and knees.  _Sometimes I’d rather not have a body.  Or a head._ He winced at Billy’s loud gagging.   _Given the kissing options right now, floating around like Casper seems like a great idea._ He leaned on a chair and pushed himself upright, stretching his back slowly in case something broke off.  When nothing did, he wandered out to the front room and plugged the phone back in.  It rang not three minutes later.

“Harrington residence,” he sighed, leaning his head against the wall.

“We’ve been called by the police.”

“I know, sorry, everything’s fine.”

“This is the third incident.”

Steve walked back around the wall, leaning to see the bathroom door, then shrugged.  “Actually my boyfriend just freaked out, we’d had a fight, he’ll be over a lot, the water bill might go up?”

The other end was silent.  

“Bye,” Steve hung up, turning away from the wall to see Billy leaning in the entryway.

“What the hell did you just do.”  His voice was hoarse.

“I probably have a spare toothbrush,” Steve put a hand on each of his shoulders and walked him back to the bathroom.  “I didn’t say it was you.”

“What the fuck,” Billy wiped his mouth, sitting on the toilet.  

“Now if you’re here all the time, there’s a good reason.”

“It’s not even _true,”_ Billy allowed his fingers to be pressed around the toothbrush.  “You’ll...what about _school._ You’re gonna…”

“Nobody’ll know.  Come on, we gotta go.”

 

When they pulled up at Billy’s house, Max drug Steve out of the car and most of the way through a shrubbery.  “Are you _okay,”_ she whispered.  “Nobody could reach you.  I could cut his brake cables.”

“Jesus,” Steve patted her hand where she’d clenched it in his jacket.  “Uh, no, it’s fine?”

“El heard police calls on the scanner.  She said they mentioned a _fire.”_

“Sorry,” Steve tugged at his jacket.  “We’re both okay.”

“He slammed my head into a door,” Billy said from a few feet away, and Max let go, glaring.  

“Sounds like you deserved it.”

“You _fell!_  He was drunk,” Steve turned to Max.  “He gashed his head on the doorknob.  I tried to catch him!”

“If he’d done it on purpose he’d _brag,_ fuckhead,” Max shoulder checked Billy on the way to the car, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his head, setting his jaw.

Once they were in the car, Billy glanced between them, and turned down the volume on _Rock You Like A Hurricane._ “So,” he smirked at Max in the rearview mirror.  “Mountain lions?”

“What?” she snapped back.  

Steve reclined his seat, nearly crushing her as she scrambled away.  _“Dustin_ told Mrs. Williams we fought mountain lions.”

“That’s stu--” she coughed as Steve widened his eyes at her.  “Uh.  Whatever, I don’t care.”

“So,” Billy ran his fingers through his hair, and Max snorted.  “Not mountain lions, then.”

“Fuck off,” she muttered, scooting down in the seat.  “God, you _reek.”_

“What happened in the bus?”  Billy slid a cigarette out of his jacket.

“Jesus,” Steve hugged his backpack to cover his face.

“Your mom _made_ you in a bus,” Max muttered, and Billy swerved.  Steve swung over and grabbed the wheel, punching Billy in the shoulder and Max in the knee with his other hand.

“Don’t kill us.  Christ.”

“What does this have to do with how I ended up in the _trunk,”_ Billy smiled at Max in the rearview mirror, and she kicked his seat.

“Seriously!” Steve punched Billy’s shoulder again.  “I don’t wanna _die._ Just _drive.”_  

Billy cranked the music back up, lighting the cigarette, his face set.  They hadn’t even stopped pulling in in front of the school before Max had the door open, and Steve reached over to slide his thumb under Billy’s cuff.  

“Shit.  I told Hopper I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Billy shrugged, grinning at him as Max stalked around to start bodily dragging Steve out of the car.  To Steve’s bewilderment, Eleven stood by to slide into his place.  She had a big pink bow in her curls and a matching dress, but her face had the flat stare he remembered from first meeting her.  Mike slid in behind her, and Billy looked from Eleven to Steve, somewhere between entertained and pissed off.  “What the?” he mouthed, spreading his hands.

Max slammed the car door, dragging Steve by the elbow into the first classroom off the middle school hallway.

“What’s going on,” he asked Dustin, who shook his head, shoving him at a chair.  

“Steve, you’ve gone _insane.”_   

“It’s an intervention,” said Lucas, folding his arms. 

Steve had his eyes on the windows watching Eleven in the car with Billy and Mike.  Billy was listening, as far as he could tell, cigarette out the window.  Glancing up to meet his eyes, Billy backed out of the parking space, and left the school.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and criticism accepted and vastly enjoyed! Got questions? Ask 'em, maybe I have plans, maybe I need to make some...
> 
> There's an accidental injury in this one, that bleeds a lot, but it's handled carefully and immediately (as possible) if that makes a difference. Also intoxication. We get some insight into the headspace Billy's been put in by his dad, and it's pretty awful. If you spot anything else I should have warned for, lemme know!


	4. Cage bars aren’t always substantial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter got long, so have some conversation and takeout before the finale.
> 
> Note the rating boost!

_“Steve,”_  Dustin sighed, shaking his head.  “Steve, Steve, Steve.”  He reached out and patted Steve’s shoulder, staring into his eyes.

Steve scooted back, the entire desk sliding sideways out of the row with a screech.  “What the hell?  Sorry I didn’t pick up the phone?  I guess?  It was three o’clock in the morning, guys.  Do you know why _Eleven_ wanted to talk to _Billy Hargrove?”_

 _“Probably_ she thinks he kicked your ass again!  He’s lucky Mom didn’t wake me up,” Max growled, dropping to sit on the desk Steve was facing across the tiny aisle.  “My mom told Eleven it was a school night and hung up, or I’d have...come gotten him.”  She rolled her shoulders.

“Uh,” Steve held a hand up.  

“My little sister told me you both _burned to death,”_ Lucas put in, leaning next to her.  “That was my morning!” he flailed his arms.  “We’re getting in the car to pick Max up, and she’s like ‘Oh Lucaaaaaas, your girlfriend’s brother died in a fire at Harringtooooon’s.”

Steve could easily imagine the scene, and covered a snort.  “Did she put her hands on her hips?”

“She _sang_ it,” Lucas hissed back.

 _“Steve,”_ Dustin huffed, glaring around.  “Everyone.  We’re all war veterans now, so--”

“What the hell, man, you are not a _war veteran,”_ Lucas punched his arm.

“The Second War of Hawkins,” Dustin scoffed.  “Uh, yeah we are.  I thought you guys had my back on this, come on--”

“No, I said it was _stupid.”_

“Wow, I sure do not want to be late for school,” Steve started to stand, and Max kicked his knee.

“Don’t _kick_ him, he might be _dying,_ he spent a whole night with your _brother--”_ Dustin wailed, clutching at Steve’s hand, and the desk creaked as Steve jerked back.

“That’s not what a war veteran _is,”_ Lucas hissed.

“Lucas, you’re making the most sense,” Steve pointed, and Dustin gasped.  “Your turn.”

 _“Thank_ you,” Lucas rolled his eyes.  “I know you gave them all that whole stupid speech about Billy being Clifford--”

“That’s so dumb,” Max groaned.

“--but what he _is_ is an alcoholic shithead, and you should tell him to fuck off.  Show him the bat again.”  Steve muffled a snort at the thought of Ms. Williams showing her dogs the squirt bottle.

“You could also call me, or Hopper,” Max was counting off on her fingers.  “Or me.  Or that old black lady next to you could probably run him off with her dogs.”

Dustin clutched his heart.  “Mrs. Williams is archangel to a _chorus of darlings,_ how _dare_ you.”

“A what,” Max paused.

“Shut up, Dustin,” Lucas rolled his eyes.  

“A group of angels can also be called the host,” Dustin waggled his eyebrows at Max, who leaned away, nose wrinkled, “--which is _hilarious_ because that’s what they feed you and call it Jesus--”

“I don’t give a shit about _Jesus,_ Dustin--”

“What is Eleven planning with Billy?” Steve interrupted.  “And Mike?”

“We don’t _know, Steve,”_ Max punched the desk, “--because you wouldn’t answer the _phone,_ so we had _no clue_ what was going on!  And now Eleven’s probably--” she growled, punching the desk again.  

“What _happened,”_ Lucas scooted closer to her.  “Last night.”

“Welllll,” Steve considered how much of Billy’s business was none of theirs.  “Billy came over.  He was drunk off his ass.  He’s loud.  Mrs. Williams heard him and called the police.”

“Don’t lie to _us,_ Steve--” Dustin sighed, and Lucas and Max interrupted while he paused for drama.

“What about the _fire,”_ Lucas stared him down.

“Did he finally set your mom on fire?”  Max’s grin was more a baring of teeth, and she’d never reminded Steve so much of her brother.

“He was doing some dumbshit drunk shit out there!”  Steve rubbed his eyes.  “Nobody got hurt, much--”

“Much?!” Dustin yelped.  “I’m calling Hopper--”

 _“Billy fell--”_ Steve pushed him back onto the desk, “--and clonked his head on the bolt of the front door, and then he got blood all over my couch, that’s all.”

Max’s eyes were narrowing, and Steve spread his hands.  “That’s really it, pretty much, I need to--” the door creaked open, and he shoved Dustin behind him as Nancy poked her head in.  

“Everything okay?”

Steve cleared his throat, nodding, and let go of his white-knuckled grip on the bar of the desk, snorting.  _What’d I think I was gonna do, grabbing the desk like a melee weapon.  Swing it around my head?_ Nancy cocked her head at his snickering, her eyebrows broadcasting concern.  She didn’t seem to register Dustin waving.

“Is Steve okay?” Will came in with her, wide-eyed, and Steve grimaced, hunching his shoulders.

“I’m great.  Sorry I freaked you out.”

“Oh, _Will_ gets a ‘sorry’?” Lucas smacked his shoulder.

“I was doing first aid,” Steve rolled his eyes.  “Head wounds bleed like crazy.”

“He fell into the door,” Max repeated.

“Well, first he went to Carol’s and took all her beer and tequila, and _then_ he came over, tripped on the mat, and conked his head on my door,” he shrugged, as Nancy tried to muffle her snort.  “I tried to catch him!”

Max nodded, picking at her shoelaces.

“We should get to class,” Nancy squeezed Will’s shoulder, and he smiled up at her.  

“Oh, you just got here, stick around a while!” Dustin beamed at her, and Steve pushed him back into his seat again.  

“Wait!” Lucas yelled.  “You didn’t agree to anything!”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Steve grabbed his bag, waving to his posse.  “Later, Junior Heroes.”

 

Billy was parked out front when Steve wandered out of his last class, letting Carol light his cigarette.  “Soooo last night,” she reached in her shirt and readjusted her boobs, sort of fluffing them, like pillows.  “Why’d you leave?” she leaned in with her aired-out cleavage barely contained, and pressed Billy up against the car.  Steve stopped to watch.  He leaned against one of the poles holding up the roof, as Carol wrinkled her nose, redirecting from Billy’s mouth, and Steve nearly cackled aloud remembering the vomiting sounds that morning.

“Wanted to fuck up Harrington,” Billy cupped his mouth to smell his breath, and snorted.  “You said he’d be there.”

“We don’t _need_ him,” she pointed out, just as a yell came from behind Steve--Billy glanced up, saw Steve, and smirked--and Tommy ran out to stomp up to his girlfriend and the boy she held captive against his car.  

“What the hell are you doing?” Tommy yelled, and she nodded her head from side to side, and rolled her eyes, pulling her hand out of Billy’s jacket.  

“What the hell are _you_ doing, Tommy?”

Tommy rallied with a “Nuh-uh, _you,”_ and she started mimicking his words as noises.

Under cover of their argument, Steve walked casually around the parked cars and slid in to Billy’s shotgun seat, then slowly leaned across to crack the window.  

“Sluh-uhhh-ut,” Carol singsonged, fingernails deep in Billy’s denim-covered bicep.

“Slutitty slut _slut,”_ Tommy shouted back, grabbing her arm, and Steve covered his snickers with both hands, watching his limited view of Billy’s back tilt away from them.  

“You _wish_ you could be a slut,” Carol stomped her feet, and Billy’s back was shaking.  Steve slid closer to the driver’s seat, prodding the denim arm through the window.  Billy jerked, frowning down, but Tommy had distracted Carol by accusing her of wishing she was a _stud,_ and they didn’t notice.  Steve waved, and Billy grinned at him, looking not particularly worse for wear if you allowed for the blood still in his ear and what looked like a hangover for the Guinness Book of World Records.  In clear view of the window, he slid his hand down to squeeze Carol’s butt cheek.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Brush your _teeth,”_ Tommy retorted, “Fuckhead!” as Billy yanked at his door, couldn't budge the two of them, and walked around.  

Billy slid in the car and dropped across Steve's legs, and yanked the door closed as Max ran up, yelling over her shoulder.  “I thought you were _popular._ And _they_ were your fuckin’ friends?”

“He’s got a point,” Steve gasped, as Max banged at the window.  “You smell like you’ve been eating tequila worms.  In a grave.”

“You _like_ it,” Billy snorted, his shoulder digging into Steve’s as he leaned in to rub his head against Steve’s like a huge cat.

Steve snorted, but yanked a hand loose, sliding it up to cup the back of Billy’s skull.  He ran his thumb over the soft curls.  “Not really.”  _God, he’s foul._ Steve could see Max’s back leaning against the window on one side, and Carol’s leg around Tommy on the other.  Her dress had hiked up to show his hand in her panties.  _“Usually..._ maybe,” he admitted, and Billy huffed a laugh, curling into him.  “Today, though...” Steve felt Billy’s warm bulk coaxing him to sleep.  _I’ll use less oxygen if I’m asleep anyway,_ he thought muzzily. _Won’t matter he’s crushing my lungs and smells like asshole._ “...thought you were so worried somebody’d figure you out.”

Billy snorted against his neck.  “Who’s lookin’?  They’ll just think I’m fucking with you.”

“You stink but my last class I was freezing,” Steve mumbled, letting his eyes close.  

“You sayin’ I’m hot,” Billy’s teeth grazed his ear.

Max smacked the door with the flat of her hand, but she was yelling to somebody else in the parking lot.

“I know somewhere to park, and I’m kinda...hungry,” Billy slid his hand down Steve’s stomach, hooking a finger on the front of his jeans.  His thumb slid up and down Steve’s fly, and Steve groaned.

“I need a shower and sleep,” Steve muttered into his curls, which needed a wash, but were further from the smells of tequila, vomit, and the bitter, rank sweat of fear.  “You need a...a _hosing down_ or something.”

Max turned to bang on the window, and Billy scrambled over Steve’s legs into the driver’s seat, hitting him, somehow, with at least five elbows enroute.  Steve yelped, tucking his legs up against the door.  “Fuck you,” Billy muttered.

“I’ll kiss you when you’ve _brushed your teeth,”_ Steve rubbed his face, and Billy rolled up the window Tommy and Carol were smooching against.  

 _“Let me in,”_ Max mouthed, eyes narrowed, and Steve unlocked the door.  She yanked it open, growling at Billy, and her backpack smacked Steve on the head as she clambered in to the back.  Billy snorted. “You smell like the Marlboro Man’s zombie,” she kicked Billy’s seat.  “What the fuck.  You smell like _a dead dog_ rotting in a _distillery vat,_ what the hell.  Is it _gangrene?”_

“Shut your face,” Billy lit a cigarette, and she gagged.

“You coulda taken a shower in PE,” Steve leaned his head against the glass, watching Billy slowly lower the handbrake so they’d coast backward without alerting Tommy and Carol to their lack of support.  

“I was out looking at that _bus,”_ Billy bared his teeth in a grin, letting the car roll backwards out of the parking spot so his side mirror nearly knocked Carol and Tommy to the ground.  Tommy scrambled up, trying to punch the car, but Billy shifted and gunned it, sliding out of the lot.

“What bus,” Max leaned up between their heads.

“The _fucking bus,”_ Billy clenched his teeth.  “The one with _clawmarks_ in it.”

“Oh,” Max dropped back out of view.

“The fuck happened in that bus, Harrington.  Your kids wouldn’t say anything. _She_ hadn’t even seen it, what the hell was that about?  The boy made it sound like--like a fucking _wolf pack.”_

“Ha,” Max snorted.  “Close enough.”

“Huh,” The car was warm from the sun.  Steve’s eyelids felt like when a sponge has been sitting out so long it can’t even absorb water.  He let them close, until his seat bucked as Max started kicking again.

“What happened,” Billy asked her, and she snorted.

“Oh, yeah, 'cause I tell _you_ things.”

 _“Harrington,”_ Billy hit the horn, and Steve’s head smacked back against the seat.  

“Druh,” he rubbed his face.  “Mwuh. The fuck do you want.”

“He said you had to barricade them in there.  There was _blood.”_

Steve shrugged, wishing he could crawl in the back and nap.  “I guess so.”

“Could you have _died?_ What the fuck was the _sheriff_ doing?!”  Billy braked suddenly for a turn, and Steve’s face nearly hit the dash.

“Christ, are you two _fucking?”_ Max stuck her head forward again, and Billy’s tires screeched as he ran off the road and up the grassy shoulder.

“Shut the _fuck up,_ Max,” he took a long draw off his cigarette and turned off the engine, but clenched the steering wheel with both hands.

“Did you forget what he _said,_ you fucking--you bag of _shit--”_

“Shut the _fuck up,_ don’t you dare--don’t you _fucking_ tell him, Max--”

“I wouldn’t _tell him,”_ she yelled back, smacking his shoulder and head.  “I’d never _tell him,_ you fuck,  what the fuck are you _doing--”_

“Jesus,” Steve whispered, and Max grabbed his jacket, yanking his face close enough to snarl into.  

“You--you _morons,”_ she gritted out, swallowing hard.  “Steve, if you fucking--if anyone--if you say a _fucking word--”_

“I...won’t tell anyone,” he glanced at Billy, who’d leaned his head in his elbow, against the steering wheel, then back to Max, whose breaths were hissing through her teeth.  Her freckles didn’t soften her fury. “Nancy knows.” Steve admitted. “She won’t say anything.”

“What the hell did you--why the fuck--”

“Look, she _asked--”_

“Billy had a magazine with Rob Lowe on it,” Max yanked him closer, whispering in his ear.  Billy threw the door open, stumbled out, slammed the door again, and paced back and forth in front of the car, kicking at the grass and trying to light a cigarette.

“What,” Steve bit his lips together, feeling the familiar adrenaline sweat prickle on his hands.  “The--Rob Lowe from _The Outsiders?_ I think Carol has him in her locker.  The poster’s worn in the middle because she kisses him before tests.” _Why am I telling her,_ he wondered, stomach clenching, but the adrenaline felt good clearing his head.

“He used it to show him how to use the _nail gun,_ Steve,” she kicked his seat, dropping out of sight as her voice got thicker.  “Told him there’s a safety, you can’t just shoot nails, you have to be up against something _solid_ , and then he slammed Billy’s shoulder into the wall and shot five nails into the head of the picture in his hand.”

“...no wonder he likes it at my house,” Steve said, on autopilot, watching Billy pace.  “We’re--”

“I don’t wanna _know,_ shut up, _eugh,”_ she shuddered.  

“We’re not doing much,” he got out before she could cut him off.  “Has he--”

“Gross, god, I thought you liked _Nancy.”_

“I,” he took a deep breath.

“No, gross, why are you _telling_ me, _Billy!”_ she shrieked, and he scrambled to open the door.  

“What,” he dropped back into the seat, hand over his face.  “What.”  He wiped his eyes, but his voice was so thick Steve started rummaging around his bag for his PE towel.

“You’re so disgusting,” she moaned, and Billy flinched.  “You _stink,_ Steve, what is _wrong_ with you--”

“He doesn’t always stink,” Steve handed over the towel, shoving it at Billy’s head until he took it, burying his face.  “Want a water bottle?”

“Go wash your face,” Max reached up to push him.  “Scrub the snot off your--scrub your face off.  I don’t wanna get in a--jesus, we kinda wrecked.”

“The car’s fine,” Billy snorted juicily, accepting the bottle Steve slapped into his hand and retreating from the car to dump it over his head over by the treeline.

“He’s always hanging around _boys,”_ she wrinkled her nose.  “If his _dad_ sees him he’ll…” she groaned into her knees, and Steve flapped an arm back to pat her back.  The hair that brushed his fingers was coarser than Billy’s, but the low “fuck...fuck... _fuck_ …”s she was muttering were all Hargrove.

“...do you think he’d actually do it?”

“...not the nailgun,” she snorted.  “He doesn’t wanna go to jail.  He thinks Billy’ll take care of himself, with the drinking and the…” she curled up around her bag, growling into the seat.  

“The what,” Steve watched Billy scrubbing his face, probably for a good while longer than he needed to.  _Breathe,_ he reminded himself, though the adrenaline usually did a pretty good job of that.  He never breathed so well as when he was hunting imaginary monsters in the dead of night.

“He thinks he’ll get in a drunk wreck and die and it’ll just be me and him and my mom and he keeps _saying_ it,” she choked out.  “He _wants_ him to die, Steve, he talks about it all the time--”

“Christ,” Steve patted her sneaker, the only part he could reach, and she gave a wet snort and blew her nose on her sleeve.

“I don’t give a shit,” she kicked the seat again.

“Yeah?”  Billy was trying to neatly fold the towel, for some reason, and Steve sighed, watching him set his shoulders and turn back towards the car.

“If Billy’s dead,” Max whispered, “--what about when he gets mad,” and then the door opened, and Billy tossed him the towel and the empty bottle, his face red and scrubbed.

Steve shoved them into his bag, “...let’s get Max home.”

“Gotta drop you off,” Billy said hoarsely, checking the mirror before backing out onto the asphalt.  

“Nobody’s gonna tell,” Max reached up to slap his side.  “Go hang out with Steve. I’ll tell him it’s a party, he loves that.”

Billy laughed, cracking the window to hold his cigarette out of it, and stole a glance at Steve, who nodded.  “Cock suckin’ party.”

“You are _so fucking nasty,”_ she moaned.  

“Is he letting you spend a lot of time with Lucas?” Steve turned to ask her.

“I guess?” she frowned at him.

“Make better friends with Eleven.”

She slouched back in the seat, dropping her gaze, as Billy glowered between them, then back at the road.  

“Seriously.  She’s the sheriff’s kid, he can’t mind that.  You don’t have to tell her about.  Things.”

“Oh _really?”_ Max cackled.  “I shouldn’t warn _Eleven.”_

“I mean, you don’t have to tell her there’s a reason you wanna be friends.  You two’d get along, though, I think.  Mike and them keep trying to put her in dresses.”

“I thought her name was Eleanor,” Bully muttered, and Max punched his seat.

“Yeah, fuckface, Mike _lied.”_

“Whatever,” Steve rolled his shoulders, letting his eyes close again.  “Make friends with her.  Teach her to skateboard, maybe.”

“...huh,” Max was quiet for the rest of the ride to their house, until she smacked the back of Billy’s head on the way out.  “You moron,” she sighed.  Billy lunged half across Steve after her, but she just waved, sauntering to the door.

“Let’s get back,” Steve pushed him back into the driver’s seat.  “Shower.”

“Right away, your majesty,” Billy leaned his arm across the back of Steve’s seat to back out, and then left it there for the drive.  A few turns before Steve’s house, a sheriff’s station car swerved out behind them, siren blasting, and Billy snorted.  “Think I could outrun ‘em.”

Steve reached over and grabbed the wheel, but Billy was already veering to the shoulder, rolling down the window, and unhitching his belt.

“We weren’t speeding,” Steve leaned to try and see who got out of the car--he vaguely recognized the deputy in the passenger seat as they parked half in the lane of traffic to block the front half of Billy’s car toward the woods.  “...Sheriff Hopper isn’t in there.  What--”

Both deputies got out, one walking to Steve’s side, the other banging on the roof on Billy’s side.  “Get out. Hands on the roof.”

“We weren’t speeding, what--” Steve frowned at the deputy on his side, before registering the one on Billy’s side unsnapping his holster.  “What the hell--”

“Shut _up,”_ Billy growled, climbing out to get shoved against his car.  

“What the hell is going on,” Steve tried to open the door, and the deputy on his side frowned at him, knocking it closed with his hip.

“Wha--Steve Harrington?”

Feeling on steadier ground, Steve nodded, eying the one that had Billy braced against the car, his hand braced near his holster.  “Yeah, why’d you pull us over?”

Steve’s deputy bent to frown in at him.  “Why you drivin’ around with the likes of Billy Hargrove?”

“Uh--” Steve shrugged, hoping Billy wouldn’t elbow the deputy in the face.

“What’s goin’ on, son?” the one holding Billy’s wrist against the car, the white one, smiled.  “Now, I know you’re from a good family, I heard about you from your dad--” he began, and Steve shoved at his door again, hitting his deputy’s leg.  

“Let me _out,”_ Steve hissed, but the deputy on his side must have been listening to the other one lecturing Billy.

“How many of these talks we gonna have to have?  You shouldn’t be drivin’ around with our Sheriff’s little girl in your car.”

 _“She climbed in,_ and she told me where she wanted to go,” Billy snarled, and got shoved against the car again for his trouble.

Steve crawled into the driver’s seat.  “She did, officer,” he tried.  “Seemed better not to argue with her--”

“That’s as may be, son.  Now, Billy.  Your father seems like a reasonable man, how many times you gonna make him call the station?  We’re gonna need you to walk a straight line, and Officer Powell here is gonna search your vehicle.”

 _Shit,_ Steve thought, hoping there weren’t twenty bottles of hard liquor under every seat, or like...marked bills in a bloody briefcase, but when Officer Powell finally opened the door, he clambered back across and out.  

“What’re you doing with--?” Powell asked, jerking his head towards Billy, who was swinging his arms to touch his nose, and baring his teeth at a lecture about curfew.

“I had a rough night,” Steve cleared his throat, and the man nodded.  “He gave me a ride, that’s all.”

“Huh,” Powell leaned in to poke through the glove compartment.

“He’s not so bad,” Steve ran his fingers through his hair, sighing.  “I don’t know what his dad told you, but…”

“Heard he beat you up pretty good,” Powell glanced back, eyebrow raised.

“...we fought,” Steve grimaced.  “Yeah.  But he’s not...he’s not what his dad says he is, is all.”

“I don’t know about his having a good, reasonable family,” the black deputy raised an eyebrow.  “I do know you can’t tell from a _glance_.  I also know the man’s right about him getting in fights,” he checked under the seats, then brushed himself off, and Steve hove a silent sigh of relief.  “And driving drunk.  And judging by the smell in here,” he lifted what looked like a broken chunk of beer bottle, and Steve cleared his throat, grimacing.

“...he’s helped me out a lot,” he said finally.  

“Be even more helpful if he doesn’t get his license taken away,” Powell scooted the passenger seat forward, and began patting down the back seat.  “Or in a wreck.”  Billy was reciting something, and Steve crossed his arms, shivering.

“I _know,_ but...are you guys just gonna pull him over all the time, or…”

“We got a call that somebody saw him with Jane in his car.  Figured it wouldn’t hurt to make sure we had his attention.”

“She’s his little sister’s friend,” Steve stretched the truth, hoping Max took his advice to call her up.

“Is she.  Well, our boss may not want him giving her rides.”

 _Hard to argue with,_ Steve thought.  

“If he’s out at night, though, or outside of town,” Powell clambered around to pop the trunk open.  “We’ve told his dad we’ll see him home, in his own car if he can drive it, or one of ours--” he walked back to lift the trunk, and paused, frowning into it.  

“What,” Steve ran to stand next to him, having visions of everything from cases of vodka to duct tape and a shovel.  Billy’d packed lidless boxes in, with neatly folded clothes, some LPs, two photo albums, and folded Michelin maps of the central and western United States.

“...he movin’ house?” Powell raised his eyebrows.

“...I think he _wants_ to,” Steve leaned his face against the car with a groan.  Moments later, Billy stalked back, dropped into the driver’s side, and slammed the door, huddling to light a cigarette.  “You’re not supposed to let him leave town?”

“Mmm,” Officer Powell frowned into the trunk.  

Steve eyed him, and he nodded.  “...I better go.”

“Call the sheriff.  Keep him in the loop.”  Powell hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, eying the back of Billy’s head.  “He’s...your friend?”

“Yes?” Steve winced inwardly, pushing himself upright again.  “I know it’s kinda…”

“That boy’s primed and loaded,” Powell shook his head.

“Yeah, he is,” Steve sighed, walking back around to drop into his seat and wait for the patrol car to pull away.

“The hell were you two gossiping about,” Billy revved the engine, pealing out between lanes.  

“Jesus, learn to drive,” Steve scrabbled for his seat belt, and Billy grinned, tapping the brakes to throw him forward.  “What were you, Mike, and El gossiping about?”

“They wanted Eggo waffles,” Billy frowned over, taking a deep draw on his cigarette.  “Your children are weird as shit.”

Steve bit his lips together, thinking of Dustin the war veteran, and Billy smirked over.  

“What’re you grinning about.”

“They are,” Steve leaned his face in his hand, shoulders shaking with laughter.  “They’re weird as hell, did you--did you seriously fucking take her to buy Eggos?”

“Fuck no, we went to IHOP,” Billy rolled his eyes.  “She tried every syrup, it was disgusting.”

“...she didn’t mind?” the tightness that clenched his lungs all day as he imagined Billy’s limp legs sticking out from under a pile of ten cars El was stacking like LEGO returned, but Billy just squinted over, cocking his head.

“...you think she’s weird _and_ stupid?”

“No,” Steve shook his head.  “No, I would never, ever call El stupid.”  

“...the sheriff’s really protective, huh,” Billy’s knuckles whitened on his steering wheel.

“Oh.  Uh, I’ll ask him to call them off.  He said if they see you out at night they’ll be watching, though.  Or, uh, if you leave town.”

“...yeah.”  Billy shut his eyes, leaning his head back, and Steve yelled _something_ and grabbed for the wheel again.  “It’s fine, Harrington, fuck off.”

When they finally pulled in to Steve’s driveway, Steve half fell out of the car, dragging his bag, and fumbled with his keys.  

“Jesus,” Billy grabbed them, unlocked the door, and pushed him inside.  

“I’m so tired,” Steve lurched for the stairs.  “Bed, oh my god.”

Billy followed him upstairs.  “Harrington,” he sang softly, swaying his hips as he lifted his shirt, and Steve let himself fall onto the bed grinning over.  

“There’re sweats in the drawer.”

“...thought you wanted a shower,” Billy paused, watching him fumble his shoes back out from under the covers and attempt to untie them.  

“Too tired,” Steve waved, eyes already closed.

 

He awoke to Billy shouting his name, in the dark, feeling like his heart was about to explode out of his chest, and he had to-- _No,_ he told himself.  _They’re never real, not--Billy Hargrove’s here_.  His clothes were cold and wet, and his lungs hurt, so he breathed--at first in gasps--and Billy grabbed his shoulders, pulling him across a wood floor.  The shrieks of idiotic middle schoolers in over their heads and the smell of the dank tunnels gave way to the dim light of the stairway.  His fingers were cold and numb.  Something slid out of his hand and clattered--from the feel and sound, his bat.

“What the fuck, Harrington,” Billy was panting against him.  “The _fuck,_ what is--what are--what’s going _on,_ Harrington.”  Steve worked the hand that’d been locked around the bat, realizing his teeth were chattering.

It hurt to use his voice.  “What’d I do?” he leaned into Billy’s warmth, slowly registering Billy yanking at his fingers, where they were locked around his arm.  Steve jerked his fingernails away from the other boy’s inner arm, feeling for the wall.

“The fuck was that,” Billy stumbled away from him.  “You almost hauled me down the _fucking stairs,_ what the _fuck--”_

“Sorry,” Steve let his head thud against the wall, and tried to impose Billy’s hoarse shouting over the residual panic.  It was hard to hear over his thudding pulse.  “Where’s Dustin, is Will--” he grabbed the bannister to pull himself up, and Billy shoved him back down, crouching next to him.  

“He’s _not fuckin’ here,_ Steve--”

“Okay, okay,” Steve let himself be held in place, leaning his head into Billy’s shoulder.  He smelled like the antiseptic on his head, clean laundry, and his own cologne, and Steve breathed it in.  _Billy’s the only monster here._ He snorted.  “...I...did I call anyone?  Shit.”

“The hell kind of nightmare was that,” Billy leaned in, breath warm against his hair.  “You’re insane.”

“Don’t usually get ‘em with you here,” Steve giggled, realizing they were hugging in his hallway in the dead of night.  “What good are you.”

Billy took a deep breath.  “...one thing about being garbage,” he said into the hair next to Steve’s ear.

“Hrm?” Steve pulled him closer, aware of the January air on his sweat-soaked t-shirt.

“...nobody believes what I say,” Billy breathed into his ear.  “If--if that’s why you won’t--”

“Shit,” Steve sighed, and Billy’s mouth shut with a click.  “No, goddammit.”

“Fuck you.  Sorry.  I don’t even care,” Billy jerked away, covering all his conversational bases.

“No--” Steve squinted around, trying to blink back the dark haze in case it was more in his head than the hall, then scooped his bat off the floor.  He grabbed the bannister again to pull himself up--his knees felt structurally unsound--and leaned on it, stalking back to his room.  “Look, I’ll ask Hopper whether I can tell you _if you want,_ but he’s probably gonna say no, and he’s gonna wanna know why you know I--do that.  Now.”

“That’s why the stupid cartoons, isn’t it.  No,” Billy followed. “Fuck no, don’t, it’s fine, I don’t need him pissed at me. _That’s_ what you do when you’re alone?”

“No, sometimes I just scream,” Steve dropped into the desk chair, pulling his wet shirt over his head.  “Once I called the police and sent them to the Byers’.”  He pressed his fists against his eyes, willing the stinging to stop.

“...I can make hot chocolate.”  Billy grabbed an old mug from Steve’s desk, hovering by his elbow.

“No, stay here,” Steve laughed, blood pounding with adrenaline. _I almost miss the usual fog in my head, it keeps me from wondering how I’m gonna last the next five years if the only sleeping pill that works is Billy Hargrove--_

Billy leaned in for a hard kiss, swinging his leg over to drop into Steve’s lap with enough force that the desk chair rolled the few feet to the bed.  The motion further unsettled Steve’s stomach, but the warmth was good.  “Mm,” he said softly, letting his eyes slide shut, losing himself in Billy’s gentle teeth biting at his lips and tongue.  As the chair tipped and resettled, unprepared for two squirming basketball players, he dropped a hand to hold Billy’s ass securely on his lap.  The other, he slid through the hair above Billy’s right ear, avoiding the gash from the night before.

Billy jerked back with a whine.  _“Harrington_ ,” he hissed, his fingers digging into Steve’s shoulders.  “What--”

His hot breath against Steve’s face was coming faster, so Steve opened his eyes, blinking into Billy’s reddened ones.  “What’s wrong?”

“Like I’d know,” Billy grinned, watching his face, then relaxed against his chest again, laughing into a kiss.

Steve groaned softly, feeling his hips buck up at Billy’s hot weight.  “Mnn. No. What-- _nn.”_  As Billy struggled with the fly, Steve slid a hand down as well, tugging Billy’s black t-shirt up, and sliding his hand down between jersey and taut abs.  Billy’s whole body went stiff against him.

“Where you headed,” his voice sounded hoarse against Steve’s chin.

“Uh,” Steve paused.  “Same...as...you?”

“Liking kissing and blowjobs is normal,” Billy grabbed Steve’s hand, pulling it out of his pants.  His hand on Steve’s wrist felt bruisingly tight, and Steve jerked at it. The chair creaked. Billy leaned to whisper against his mouth.  “What the hell are you doing, _Steve Harrington._ King Steve.”  

“Lemme go,” Steve yanked again, feeling his wrist bones grinding together.  “Let _go_ of me, Hargrove--” he yanked himself loose, the chair slowly spinning with the momentum of his flung arm, and Billy fumbled for the tie at the front of his sweatpants, trembling against Steve’s shoulder as he finally jerked them loose and down, and slid a _cold_ sweaty hand against Steve’s dick.  

Steve yelped, grabbing Billy’s wrist.  “Jesus, Billy.”

“It’s just a hand, Harrington,” Billy stared into his eyes, mouth quirking.  “Or I got a mouth if you can wait for _five seconds_ to get your pants down.”

Steve felt the chill of his room, taking in the shine to Billy’s eyes, and his trembling.  “Sorry.  I won’t do anything you don’t like,” Steve whispered, letting his eyes close at the thud through his collarbone as Billy dropped his forehead against it.  “...how’s your head?”  He leaned back as Billy tried to shift closer, and the chair creaked and made a plasticky popping noise.  They both froze.  “--hey--”

It creaked again as Billy rolled his hips, and Steve let his eyes slide closed again at the giddy tingle up from his dick, and bit at Billy’s lips, pink and hot from kissing.  “Billy,” he whispered, his breath warming where his tongue had just been. He slid his hands up Billy’s back, warming the cool muscles.  _“Hargrove._ On the bed.”

“Shut it, Harrington,” Billy snickered as the chair tilted again.  “Floor’s fine.”

“Come on.  Bed.  You’re gonna-- _Billy--”_ he wrapped his arms tightly around the idiot, and Billy went still.  “Come on,” Steve whispered into his hair.  “Come on to the bed.”

“Fuck you, Harrington, it’d be an _accident,_ right,” Billy snorted, but allowed himself to be pushed back off the chair.  “Not like I’ve done anything _\--today--”_

“God,” Steve whispered, trying to reach for Billy’s sweatpants as Billy bit at his fingers, sucking one into his mouth.  “If we get on the _bed,_ we won’t fall on our asses and it won’t--jesus, let me--”

Billy growled, standing aside to yank at his pants before shoving them down to his ankles, hopping alongside the bed, kicking one pant leg off his foot, and dropping astride Steve’s upper thighs.  

“I heard there are classes for strippers, you could work on that,” Steve grinned at being confronted with Billy’s half-hard dick, and Billy punched at him, but let Steve catch his fist and pull him in for a kiss.

He took a shaky breath as Steve rolled to pin him, then laughed up.  “What you gonna do now you’ve got me?”

“I dunno,” Steve leaned his forearms across Billy’s, watching his breathing speed up.  It was hard not to stare at Billy’s dick--it’d firmed up abruptly with Steve on top--bobbing with Billy’s ragged breaths, and oozing precum to pool across Billy’s abs.  “Billy.  You want me to stop?”

At the sound of his first name, Billy’s dick pulsed.  “Nah,” he swallowed, shuddering, but his skin felt even colder, and when Steve leaned in for a kiss, he flinched.  “Come the fuck on.  Grab my hair again.  I’ll get into it.”

Steve’s stomach clenched, and he rolled to drop along Billy’s warm side, sighing at the ceiling.

 _“Fuck_ you, Harrington,” Billy swung a leg off the bed, yanking at his arm, and Steve raised his head to free it.  

Steve stared at the ceiling, feeling the bed shake as Billy started giggling wetly, curled away from him.  “Dude,” Steve rubbed his face, eventually smacking a clumsy hand over Billy’s mouth as he tensed up to, Steve suspected, start yelling about something.  “I’m not gonna do anything to you, asshole.”

“I know,” Billy shook his hand off, laughing.  “You’re hard for me.  It’ll be just like having a girl in your lap.”

“I mean, I’m not just gonna--just-- _lose my shit_ all of a sudden,” Steve threw a fist toward the ceiling, miming an explosion.

Billy rolled to laugh against his shoulder.  “Ka _boom,_ mushroom cloud.”

“But you gotta tell me if I’m doing something you don’t like,” Steve sighed, rolling to watch Billy’s tense smile as Steve ran a thumb along his cheek.  

“‘S boring,” Billy pushed forward into a kiss, his mouth soft and open, and Steve groaned at the sudden hot hand fumbling with his dick through his briefs.  

“God, Billy,” he gripped handfuls of Billy’s shirt, kissing clumsily over his mouth and face as Billy kept pushing his hands back up there.

“D’you want my mouth,” Billy whispered.  “Feels just like a mouth, any mouth, Nanc--”

“...you want mine?” Steve cut him off before he had to get mad, feeling like his veins were running honey--warm and sweet.  Like no monsters had ever existed, not in any stupid teen movie Billy Hargrove would be in.

“Fuck no, I know those rules,” Billy started army crawling down the bed.  “I’m a stupid piece of shit, but I’m not gonna--”

“What rule,” Steve grabbed his head, holding him in place for another kiss.  “Hargrove.”

Billy’s eyes fluttered shut, but then he wrested his head away, grinning.  “The ‘get too queer on you and get my head smashed into the fucking dumpster’ rule,” Billy tugged at his sweatpants, and Steve lifted his pelvis.  

“I’m not--oh _jesus,_ Billy--” he lost his train of thought as Billy’s mouth slipped over his dick clear up to his lower belly, taking him in with no hesitation.  “Christ, how many cocks have you sucked, you’re fucking--you’re--fuck _\--Hargrove--”_

Billy snickered around him, and Steve had no idea what he said then, under the influence of the vibrations of Billy’s throat.  Probably mostly laughing about how short a time it was gonna be, and entirely profane.  Billy’s tongue was everywhere he wanted it--up stroking the bundle of nerves under the head, and down his length again--which was just as well, because with all the muscles in his body feeling like they were drawing in to the wet heat of Billy’s mouth, all Steve could do was focus on breathing and try not to pull his hair.  

Billy pulled off, looking up through his lashes, and Steve whined.  “Just yank on it, jesus,” he butted his head against Steve’s hand, and Steve got a handful of curls.  

He mumbled something around Steve’s dick as he sunk his lips over it again, and Steve breathed deep, chanting ‘fuck, jesus, fucking hell,’ as the vibration undid him.

“Shit, sorry,” Steve breathed, “Sorry, shoulda--shoulda warned you, jesus.”

Billy pulled off, eyes lowered, and wiping his mouth.  Steve flailed an arm down and dragged him back up the bed, rolling to wrap both arms and a leg around him, panting.  “God. I don’t...I don’t even...know what all I just... yelled,” he bit at Billy’s stubble.

“You should be thanking me for all that practice,” Billy mumbled, tense against him.

“Mmm.  Thanks,” he giggled, hugging him tighter.  “Thank you, thank you...happy to help you out anytime.  With your...study drills.”

Billy pulled back, studying his face.

“Oh my god,” Steve let himself roll onto his back.  “I haven’t felt this good since like.  Shit.  Everything happened.”

Billy snorted, ducking his head.  “Yeah, whatever. Lemme use your shower.”

“No, wait.  You still all ‘hands off’ about your dick?”

“...you don’t fucking want my cock in your hand, Steve, I’m not _that_ stupid.”

“Okay,” Steve kissed his eyelids, his forehead, and the end of his nose.  

“S’not my _mouth,”_ Billy growled, grabbing Steve’s chin and holding it in place to stop the kisses Steve was peppering his face. “The fuck are yoummph,” he kissed back.

 _His mouth’s even hotter than his face,_ Steve thought, trying not to giggle.  _He wears more makeup than Nancy, and he tastes like me, gross._ “Oh, you’re shaking,” he snorted.  “Your balls are gonna _explode_ blue.  Okay.  C’mere.”

“Let me go be okay in the shower,” Billy grunted into another kiss, but pushed closer, running his hands up Steve’s ribs.

“How about you jack off,” Steve combed his fingers through the hair at the sides of Billy’s head, “--and I kiss you.  I’ll just kiss you.  Your favourite thing.”

“Shut up, you’re not that good a kisser,” Billy leaned in to him, holding his breath as he tried not to pant.  “Jus’...my hand on my cock, right,” he whispered.

“Go ahead,” Steve cupped his jaw.  He could feel the skin he was kissing getting hotter, and he almost slid a hand down Billy’s neck and collarbones, but kept his hands where Billy had kept moving them.  Billy shuddered against him.  “God,” Steve kissed across his eyelashes, his fingers on Billy’s neck reverberating with his thumping heart.

“It’ll--it’ll get on you,” Billy mumbled, but allowed himself to be pulled so close Steve could feel Billy’s clenched knuckles jerking up and down against his belly.

“Fuck,” Billy’s kisses got clumsy, his eyes fluttering shut, and Steve twined his fingers tighter in the silky brown curls, clenching his fist.  

Billy moaned, going limp and solid against him.  “...I need another fucking shower,” he whispered around kisses, and Steve snorted painfully, laughing against Billy’s sweaty shoulder.  

“Hey,” Steve ran his nails over the base of Billy’s skull and up the back of his head, grinning as an entire basketball player tried to fold into his hand like a cat.  

“Mmn,” Billy huffed back, pressing his face against Steve’s t-shirt.  

“I forgot about a condom.”  Billy went still.  “I just…” Steve sighed.  “...how many dumpsters did you get slammed _into?_ What if I had _syphilis?”_  

“From _Nancy Wheeler?”_ Billy barked with laughter.  “What the fuck.”

“There were ‘before Nancy’ times _._  God, you shoulda heard the riot act she read me.  You _ever_ use condoms?”

“...give the fucking blow job back,” he could feel the heat of Billy’s face through his shirt.    

“Jesus.  Go to the fucking doctor, you moron, find out whether my dick’s gonna fall off.  And don’t put anything _in_ you without a sock on it.”

“I wasn’t fucking...outside the bar, taking all comers--”  Steve snorted at the image, and Billy elbowed him, huffing a laugh into his shoulder.

“You gonna do it, though?”  Steve rubbed Billy’s taut neck with his thumb, and Billy sighed.

“Fuck you.”

“If that’s somethin’ you wanna do,” Steve leaned to mouth at his ear.  “If I can trust you to stay clean...for me.”  He grinned at Billy’s shudder.  

“Don’t fuckin’ tease me,” Billy growled against his chest.  “Just. _Sometimes,_ I’d--”

“I mean I don’t wanna _know,_ just if you’re gonna keep climbin’ in my lap--”

“Are we _going steady_ now,” Billy snorted against his jaw, and Steve’s hand stopped stroking his hair.  “Shit, no,” Billy punched the bed, shoving himself off it.  “I didn’t mean that.  I didn’t mean that, Harrington, fuck.”

 _“You...seriously_ wanna be my _boyfriend?”_ Steve rolled to frown over the edge of the bed, and Billy scrambled back against the wall.  

“I know that’s not--I know my--I’m sorry--fuck, Harrington,” he laughed, letting his head fall back against the wall with a smack.  Steve opened his mouth, still coming up with a reply, and Billy shut his eyes and knocked his head back into the wall again, and again, hard enough that the clock rattled.

“Jesus,” Steve scrambled off the bed, yanking him away from the wall, and running his hand up the back of Billy’s head.  It wasn’t sticky.  _“Jesus,_ Hargrove.”

“Sorry,” Billy snorted, but his skin was cold and damp.  “She shoulda just thrown me in a fucking dumpster.  I didn’t mean it, jesus.  Please don’t.”

“I’m not mad, christ, c’mon...come here, don’t--”  

“Don’t act like you don’t give a shit,” Billy grabbed the hand Steve was trying to inspect his head with.  His hands were freezing.  “Tommy says Jonathan Byers fucked your girl and you showed up with that _baseball_ bat, c’mon, _Harrington,_ what’s it gonna be, is he the one all over your _fucking nailbat,_ I’m fucking _sorry,_ I won’t say that shit, I promise--” he laughed, wiping his nose, his eyeliner streaking.  “Promise from Billy fucking Hargrove, because that means fuck-all, shit--”

“Oh,” Steve blinked.  _Yeah, actually, that probably looked pretty bad._ He rubbed his face.  _Jesus, Steve._ “Uh.  Shit, no.”

Billy grabbed his other wrist so tightly the bones creaked.  “Lemme go.  Just let me the fuck go.  I’ll go home, I won’t tell anybody.  You know I won’t fucking tell anybody, nobody’d fucking believe me--”

“No, seriously, shut up--”

“I’m _shutting up,_ Harrington--”

Steve tried to lift one of his hands, and Billy jerked his head away, breathing shakily.  

“Calm the fuck down.  Billy _fucking_ Hargrove, don’t do any crazy _Billy_ shit, okay,” he kept his voice level.  “It’s--I don’t _care,_ shit, it’s fine.  Tell--tell anyone.  Anything.  I’ll kiss you in _class,_ I do not give a _shit.”_ He tried to suppress a snicker, and it turned into a giggle.  “I will fucking date you, if that’s what you want, stop giving yourself _brain damage.”_

“I don’t wanna _date_ some psycho with a bat, I’m not asking you to _prom,”_ Billy growled.

Steve couldn’t stop giggling, the image of Billy Hargrove as Prom King not helping.  “God help whoever lets you make a speech,” he left his hand on the ground, but ran his thumb over Billy’s naked toes.

“Don’t fuckin’ tickle me.”  Billy let go, scooting back.  

“Y-you have a mouth that--that doesn’t _unfold,”_ Steve gasped, miming the demodog’s unfurling with spread fingers, and he cackled at Billy’s blank face.  “It’s g-good enough for me.”

“...you’re _unhinged,”_ Billy stared.  “The fuck is that, an _alligator?”_

“Fuck yeah,” Steve let himself fall to the side, his side starting to cramp with laughter.  “Bring it. They can call me the Gatorfucker.”

“You’re a--you _\--basket case,”_ Billy sat wide-eyed, elbow at a weird angle as he tried to let Steve lie on the floor giggling without breaking his wrist.

“I am,” Steve nodded, wiping his eyes against his upper arm.  “Oh my god, I am.  I see _monsters,”_ he tried to hold a straight face, but blew out his cheeks in a cackle at Billy’s glower.  

“Are you on _drugs,”_ Billy let go of his wrists to keep from being yanked forward as Steve rolled onto his back, kicking his feet.  

“Maaaaaaybe I should be,” Steve grinned at the ceiling, wiping his eyes.  

“Telling _me_ to see a fucking doctor.”  Billy looked hilarious, Steve thought, naked and spooked against the plaid wallpaper, and Steve started giggling again, clutching his stomach.

“Still--” he swallowed, trying to catch his breath, “--still wanna date?  We could keep watch on the roof.  Then a nice patrol through the snow at, y'know, two o’clock in the morning.  I’ll keep you safe.  You can kiss off the monster blood.”  His giggles ceased at the memory of Jonathan and Nancy clinging to each other.  

“You thought I was a _monster_ earlier,” Billy got up and started gathering his clothes.  “‘F’I hadn’t yelled so loud, maybe you’d be a murderer.  Nice, Harrington, really excellent.”

“Byers is _fine,”_ Steve rolled his eyes.  “You really think he’d be walking around if I hit him with that thing?  That bat didn’t get anywhere close to you, you fucking moron.”

“Then what the _hell_ were you dragging me around for?”  

“Oh come on,” Steve flailed a fist toward Billy’s foot, missing by several inches.  “I thought we were being attacked, it was a stupid dream, I was thinking ‘save the civilian!’, I wouldn’t have hurt _you.”_

“...you dreamed you were _saving me.”_ Billy stopped to frown down.  “...what do you mean _civilian.”_

“...nothing,” Steve sat up, stretching, and grinned as Billy’s eyes strayed to his shoulders, then down his chest.  “Come on, stick around.  Boyfriend.”

“Shut up,” Billy snorted, walking a wary circle around him, but dropping to sit on the bed.  

“You really _are_ Danny Zuko, lusting after Stevey Dee--”

“What the _shit--”_

“I was paying _so much attention_ to Travolta’s ass in that, how did I not even notice--”

“I’m gonna kick _your_ ass--”

“Be nice to your sweetie-pie.  How we gonna work this,” Steve rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin up with his elbows on the floor.  “We could go to the movies?  I guess..?  It’s dark.”

“Shut up.  You’re not funny.”

“It’d be just like an affair, actually.  We’d have to tell people we were--”

“Shut the _fuck up,_ Harrington.”

“Fine, whatever.  You trying to leave town?”

“...what.”

“He searched your trunk,” Steve leaned to look at the clock.  “Wanna order food?”

“With what _money,”_ Billy curled up on the bed.  “Hadta quit my job and move to the sticks.  And he’s told everybody I’m a fucking... _serial killer_ by now.”

“...Heard there’s a mall opening up,” Steve hopped up to rifle his desk for a rubber-banded stack of bedraggled menus.  “I bet the new businesses’ll hire.  You had a job?”

“Yeah, fuckhead, I had a _job._ You think _he_ bought me that car?”

“Huh.  You want pizza or Chinese?”

“...I don’t give a shit,” Billy swallowed, following him downstairs to lurk around the doorway as Steve ordered a whole lot of meat and noodles.

In the front room, naked with the phone in his lap, Steve grinned over again.

“What now,” Billy sighed.

“We’re covered in jizz.  Come on, shower.”  He wandered over, sliding his arm around Billy’s waist.

“...not getting my mouth on your dick again, asshole,” Billy smirked, leaning in to a kiss.  

“S’fine, we’ve only got fifteen minutes.”  

After ten minutes of scrubbing whatever surface was closest, whether it was on his body or Billy’s--particularly if it made Billy huff a soft laugh--Steve piled out of the shower and grabbed a towel, leaving Billy cackling against the shower wall.  “The hell was that, your majesty, you really needed to scrub my elbow four times?”

Steve stuck his head back in for a kiss, flicking Billy’s shoulder to get his attention.  He blinked, but leaned forward, his ass still under the shower, and Steve kept his body as far from the water as he could drying off.  “...we look like those kissing salt-and-pepper shakers,” he whispered, leaning in again.

“Mmn,” Billy hummed back, grinning against his lips.  “You’re gonna have to get the food naked.”

“Worth it,” he pulled back, closing the shower door.

 

When Billy wandered down, his hair was mostly dry, and Steve kept his hands in the blood-free zone hauling him close.  “...lemme wash your hair later.”

“It’s not that bad,” Billy allowed himself to be pressed against the counter, kissing Steve’s mouth over the next three sentences he tried to start.

“Oi,” Steve bit his lips together, lifting his head to escape, and ran his hands up and down Billy’s arms.  “It’s got a load of blood in it.  I’ll be careful, just lemme wash it in the sink.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Billy hefted himself onto the counter, pulling Steve’s head in with both hands to hold him in a convenient kissing position.  

Steve lost himself in clean soft Billy Hargrove smells until the doorbell rang.  “Mm--Billy--” he pulled back, then leaned back in, stopping to really appreciate the firm thighs on either side of his waist, the muscles under his hands on Billy’s abs, the heat of his mouth, and the intent dark eyes watching him for sudden motions.  “I’m hungry.  For noodles,” he specified, and Billy snorted.  He lingered through another two rings before running off, leaving Billy to bury his face in his hands.  When he returned, he handed over the cartons, watching as Billy scrounged for plates.

“...your cupboard handles are dusty.”

“There’s no hot chocolate in there,” Steve watched, then shrugged, meandering around opening drawers before holding up folding napkins victoriously and spreading them on the table as placemats.  

“How do you...do you even know how to wash dishes?”

“I know how soap works,” Steve rolled his eyes, leaning to lay a kiss on him as he slid by with the silverware.

“...what's that look for,” Billy finally asked, portioning out the Mongolian Beef, and cutting the odd eggroll in half.

“Why are we even using dishes,” Steve stepped closer and stabbed his fork into the bigger half.  “It _comes_ in dishes.”

“...I just imagined you setting up a romantic dinner.  Would you cut the pizza box in half?  Who needs candles, just set the lid on fire.”

Steve gasped.  “I’d do my boy better than _thUF--”_ he choked as Billy elbowed him in the stomach.  

“I will fucking murder you,” Billy whispered in his ear, but Steve leaned into him, laughing.  

“Chill out, c’mon, dinner and a movie.”

“...better not be singing mice.”  Billy allowed himself to be drawn out into the front room to the coffee table.

“Laserdiscs are over there, pick something out, if you’re sick of Fievel.”

“What’s Ghostbu--”

“Holy fucking christ no,” Steve waved it away.

“Wh--”

“No no no,” Steve leaned over and pushed it back into the crate.  Billy very slowly slid it back out, biting back a grin, and Steve leaned to thunk their shoulders.  “Noooooo,” he whispered.  “You don’t know how many times Dustin’s watched it.  He recites along with it, it’s so fucking annoying, you have no idea--” he leaned in for a stealth kiss attack, sliding the case out and quickly tossing it under the couch while Billy raised an eyebrow, but hummed against his mouth, “--if you want to win him over, ask him about it, but do not make me sit through that fucker again.”

“Why would I wanna win _him_ over,” Billy rolled his eyes, pulling out The Howling.

“I dun~no,” Steve sing-songed, shifting to block Billy’s swift elbow.

Halfway through The Howling, Billy leaned in to nock his head under Steve’s chin.  “Are you afraid of...werewolves,” he whispered, and Steve snorted a laugh.

“That’s definitely it, you’re on to me.  Hey,” he leaned to kiss Billy’s head, getting another weirded-out glance for his trouble.  “Come on, I can wash your hair.”

“Do I _stink,”_ Billy tried to sniff at a hank of it, wincing as he tugged.  

“It’s all clotted, come on.”

“...can wash my own fucking hair,” Billy allowed himself to be drug by the hand into the kitchen.  

“Just where you got gashed.  There’s blood in your hair, I can see what I’m doing.”  Leaving his captive feral by the kitchen sink, Steve ran up and found the shampoo, returning to find Billy shirtless, and trying to comb his fingers through the matted edges of his hair.

“How’d they let you in IHOP, you look like a corpse from a horror movie,” Steve turned on the water, folding his arms.  “It takes a minute to get hot.”

“I tied it up, it kinda--” Billy fluffed the top, hiding the gash, and tucked the bloodied hanks underneath.  “El--Eleven?” he frowned over, mouth quirked.

“Or Jane, but I mean, if she told you something else...”

Billy rolled his eyes.  “She was really into it, took half my bobby pins and elastics.”

“You...sat in IHOP giving hair tips,” Steve said slowly, feeling his cheeks heat.  

“No,” Billy snorted.  Steve raised his eyebrows, and Billy turned on the cold water.  

“Are you giving me a bath or what.”  

“What,” Steve made a face, but pushed his sleeves up.

“You picked me up from the pound, you gotta deal with my mange,” Billy grinned over, bracing his arms on the edge of the sink and leaning in.  

Steve tested the water, his cheeks flushing.  “Just wondered whether your hair tips were as good as my hair tips.”  He cleared his throat, grabbing the sprayer, and ran his fingers up the back of Billy’s neck and head to get his hair over the sink.  “...have to see who has better hair, Dustin or El.”

“The hell d’you know about curls,” Billy snorted, but his neck was turning red under Steve’s fingers.  

“This too hot?” Steve sprayed Billy’s wrist, and he jumped.  

“...s’fine.”

“Okay,” he started wetting it down, remembering the tangles Nancy fought with, and trying not to yank.  The water on Billy’s right side ran reddish-brown.  “Tell me if it hurts--”

“Fuck you,” Billy’s voice was muffled, and his clench on the edge of the sink was white-knuckled, but he turned his head easily as Steve ran the sprayer behind his ear, and up the back of his neck, and pushed his head down into the sink so the water didn’t run down his back.  

“You’re doin’ good,” Steve said, for no real reason other than the tension shaking Billy’s shoulders, but he snorted, relaxing forward a bit as Steve let go of the sprayer and grabbed the shampoo.  “Okay."  He started gathering up the long curls, working them into suds, and scratching his nails and thumbs in circles around Billy’s scalp, and Billy made a noise that started as a grunt but kinda turned into a whine.  Steve narrowed his eyes at the scabbed area he was carefully avoiding. “That hurt?”

“...n-no,” Billy’s voice sounded hoarse, so Steve slowed up a bit, trying to be more careful about tugging the hair on the right side of his head.  

“...almost done,” he reached under to turn Billy’s head and work the shampoo along his hairline.  His hand on Billy’s neck informed him Billy’s heart was pounding, and he kept swallowing.  “...seriously,” Steve turned him the other way, “Are you okay?  You feel like you’re having a heart attack.”

“Shut _up,”_ Billy mumbled, hipchecking him into the sink.  

“You want conditioner?” Steve offered, grabbing the sprayer.  “Keep your eyes shut.”

“Yes I _fucking_ want conditioner,” Billy growled, and Steve grinned, ducking his head to see--sure enough, Billy’s face was as red as his neck and shoulders.  

“I’ll just take my time then,” Steve rinsed carefully, his left hand on the back of Billy’s neck to keep the water back.  Billy shivered when he took it away, and Steve couldn’t resist smacking a kiss there, just to watch him jerk and glower over his shoulder.  

“You don’t have to do _conditioner,”_ he muttered.  “I’m not gonna die of one day--”

“Yeah, you didn’t exactly say please,” Steve got a handful of conditioner, watching Billy laugh and wipe his face.

“Fuck you, Harrington.”  He leaned back in, and Steve held his hands down within view, sidling up against him but not actually touching his hair.  Billy snorted, turning his face away.  “Please, your Majesty, honor me with _\--jesus,”_ his knees banged against the cupboard doors as Steve held Billy’s forehead with one hand, pressing up his skull with the other.  Billy grabbed for the sink, and Steve caught him around the waist.

“Christ,” Steve cackled into his shoulder, “--did your _knees_ just give out?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy leaned his head in his arms, wiping his face.

“Lemme--lemme grab you a chair,” Steve was giggling, waggling a foot over to grab a kitchen chair and drag it closer.  “Kneel on this.”

“...should be healed up soon.”  The chair rocked as he clambered onto it.  He felt shaky under Steve’s fingers.

“Are you seriously okay?”  He started another rinse, after his fingers sank into freezing curls.  “Are you cold?”

“I’m just--having--I don’t fucking know, just--fuck you,” Billy mumbled, leaning deeper into the sink.  

“...you still want the conditioner?  I could--”

“I want the fucking conditioner, are you _fucking deaf.”_ He rubbed his face, wiping his nose, and Steve bit his lips, nodding.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.”  He took a while, uncertain what would happen when he finished, and Billy had to lift his head. _Maybe he was topping up on tequila while I was paying for the pizza,_ he frowned around, shifting his feet as Billy leaned into his side, _or maybe the stress of not punching anyone for hours broke him._ When he was done, he kept his hand on the back of Billy’s head, holding him while he grabbed for the towel, then dropped it over the back of his head, pulling a grumbling, muffled Billy into his arms for a brisk towelling.  After a few minutes, he rucked up the edge over Billy’s face, smirking into his narrowed eyes and set jaw.

“Who the hell was that for,” Billy slammed the heel of his hand into Steve’s chest, shoving him away and stomping to the fridge.  “What do you have to _drink,_ Harrington.”

Steve, who hadn’t been inviting his alcohol suppliers over, and had lost the main privilege of living at the party house--free liquor--crossed his arms.  “The hell are you mad about.”

“The fuck _was_ that,” Billy waved at his hair, slamming the fridge so hard the plates in the cupboard rattled.  “You--who the hell are you in love with, are you still fucking--Nancy Wheeler?  Go--fucking go get her,” he pulled the towel over his head again, stalking into the front room.

“What are you even talking about,” Steve followed him out, scooping up a container of chow mein and digging in as he dropped on the couch.  

“Let’s go,” Billy punched his shoulder, frowning at the container.  He grinned over.  “Let’s go fuck up her new man.  Drag him out.”

Steve choked, smacking his chest, chewed, and swallowed before staring over.  “What the _hell,_ dude.  What have you got against Jonathan Byers.”

Billy scooted in close, his grin tense.  “You keep lying to me.  Don’t fucking pretend that whole--that hairwashing bullshit was for _me.”_

“...you had blood in your hair,” Steve leaned away.  “I just washed _blood_ out of your _hair--”_

Billy laughed, grabbing the front of his sweatshirt.  “Ha.  No way, Harrington.  No fucking way.  Come on.  Don’t waste it on me.  Let’s go get her--”

Steve shoved his hands off, clambering over the arm of the couch and padding back into the kitchen to lean against the counter.  “Shut up.  Leave ‘em alone.”  Billy came up and slid his arms around him from behind, all warm breath and firm muscles, and Steve groaned into his noodles.  “Fuck off, asshole, we’re not--we’re not gonna _lynch_ somebody ‘cause you think I need a girlfriend.”

“Not _a_ girlfriend,” Billy kissed his neck.  “Her.  You got some...Romeo and Juliet shit going on.  She’s not _dead,_ just go get her.”

“She’s too smart for me,” Steve snorted.  “Wasn’t gonna last.  She’s going off to college, I’m just...staying in Hawkins.  It’s over, man, what the hell--” he leaned his head back, trying to see Billy’s face, and ended up in an awkward, upside-down kiss that still made him light-headed.  “Jesus,” he panted.  “Anyway.  Didn’t take you for a matchmaker.”

“I’m not--”

“Why the hell you trying so hard to get me to bang somebody else when we’re making out,” Steve let himself be turned around, sliding his arms around Billy’s neck to kiss him.

“Just feel like a blow-up doll, letting you pull your pretend boyfriend _bullshit,”_ Billy accepted the kiss despite his glower.  

“My what?” Steve laughed.  “Yeah, that’s what I’d do with a sex doll, wash its hair.”

“Or a dog,” he’d gone still, leaning away.

“What?!” Steve cocked his head.  

“Didja want me to _wag my tail and beg for more,_ Harrington,” Billy whispered in his ear, then elbowed out of his arms.  “Want me to eat out of your hand?  Eat shit.  Fuck you.”  He shoved off the counter and stalked away to the front room, leaving Steve squinting after him in annoyed confusion.  “I’m starting the movie back up,” he yelled from the front room, and Steve meandered out, plonking himself on the opposite end of the couch and crossing his arms.

After a few minutes trying to forget about Billy and remember what was going on in the plot, Billy crawled over and flopped with his head in Steve’s lap, and Steve groaned.

“What about Carol.”

“What,” Steve sighed, running his fingers through damp curls.  

Billy leaned his head into it, closing his eyes.  “Carol.  Fuck Carol.  She’ll still invite me over.”

The bark of laughter surprised Steve as much as it did Billy, who jumped.  “Why would I fuck _Carol._ Gross.  She and Tommy are soulmates.  One day he’ll propose and they’ll just repeat ‘Do you wanna get _married,’_ after each other like parrots, like, for infinity.”

Billy snorted, coughing.  “Their vows will be ‘I know you do but what do I.’

Steve cracked up, bending to kiss his face, and finally stopped because Billy wasn’t laughing.  “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, what is this shit you keep doing,” he stared up, eyebrows knitted.  “You just fucking.  Kissed my _forehead.”_

“Is it out of bounds,” Steve grinned down, and Billy rolled to face the TV instead.

“...we’re missing the movie.”

“If you want me to stop touching you, maybe get out of my lap,” Steve slid his hand along Billy’s side, and watched him close his eyes, curling closer.

“...shut up.”

 

When the credits rolled, Billy grabbed up the dishes, shoving Steve back into the couch when he tried to follow.  

Steve wandered in to find him washing the dishes, dug a towel out of the drawer, and was shoved into another chair.  

“The fuck, Hargrove.”

“Almost done.”

“Let me dry, and you’ll be done _sooner.”_

“No hurry.”

“It’s--” Steve frowned at the clock.  “It’s only nine-thirty, but I’ve already had a _long fucking night,”_ he got up again to pull Billy’s hips against his.  “I wanna _sleep._ If you aren’t gonna _let_ me, go home.  If you’re staying, get the _fuck_ in my bed.”

Billy relaxed against him.  “...I can sit and stay, your majesty.”

“Okay, Sparky,” Steve rolled his eyes.  “...hey.”

“Mm?” Billy dried the last fork, leaning back against him.

“You _can_ just stay here.  Just come over, it’s fine.”

“What.”

“If I’m not here, Ms. Williams said you can go there.”  Steve drug him towards the stairs, and Billy’s feet scuffled at the floor.

“What the hell _\--fuck_ both of you. _Fuck_ you, you--”

“Is that a ‘thank you’, I hear?  Thank you, Steve!  Thank you!  Thank you to Ms Williams, and her dogs!”

“Fuck do you mean _stay here,”_ Billy yanked free.  “Shut the fuck up.  I can’t _stay here._ She’s not gonna--”

 _“If you want to,”_ Steve pulled him back.  “We’re not--”

Billy shoved him against the wall.  “You trying to get me sucking your cock again?  Just fucking tell me.”  The shove had knocked the air out of Steve’s lungs, and he took a deep breath, jerking his head back as Billy growled in his ear.  “You want me again?”

“I wanna sleep,” Steve pushed him off, but grabbed his hand to haul him upstairs.

Billy yanked away to walk around the other side of the bed as soon as they were in Steve’s room, dropping back to sit against the headboard.

“...aren’t you gonna sleep?” Steve paused, half out of his sweatshirt.  

“Just got up from a nap,” Billy stared outside.  “I actually sleep at _home.”_

“What’s out there?”  Steve crawled over the bed, squinting out the window.  

“Nothing!  Jesus!  I was looking for _cops,_ you fucking... _nutcase,”_ Billy groaned as Steve slid up next to him, aiming at his mouth, but kissing his cheek and ear as he ducked away.

“Mmm,” he licked his lips.  “Did you find the spare toothbrushes?”

“I carry one,” Billy rolled his eyes, and Steve yanked him back in by the shoulder for another kiss, grinning as he felt the skin against his lips heating up.

“Fuck are you _doing.”_ Billy blocked him with both hands, but didn’t push him away, and Steve leaned his face against them.  “You’re such a _nerd.”_ Billy let himself drop sideways, smiling up.  “The hell did you think I’d see?”

“Stay-Puff Man,” Steve pulled his sweatshirt the rest of the way off and padded off to the bathroom.  

“You eat too many marshmallows, if he’s on your mind,” Billy yelled after him, and Steve leaned back around the door, laughing.  

“No, it’s--never mind.  We can watch it.”  When Steve returned, Billy had deigned to take his boots off and stick his legs under the covers.  Steve flicked the light off and slid in, sighing at the smooth, cool feel of the sheets and the weight of the blankets.  “...where are you?”

“I’m over here,” Billy snorted.  “How close d’you _\--Harrington,”_ he grabbed Steve’s hands, and Steve thought to his satisfaction he’d at least go to his grave having made Billy Hargrove sound like an offended librarian.  

“C’mon, I wanna--” he tugged at Billy’s arm.  “Hug you, I guess.  Get in here.”

 _“Why,”_ Billy muttered, but slid in, and allowed Steve to test his theory that Billy’s chest was warm and smelled nice.  He laid his head on it, sliding a hand up Billy’s abs, and the body under him shivered.

“Sorry,” Steve grinned.

“...I can feel you grinning.”

“This is nice.”

“...shut the fuck up, Harrington.”

Steve opened his mouth to retort, considered what compliment would make Billy flush down to his navel but not elbow him in the face with the rush of emotion--and then he was jerking awake, wiping his mouth, as Billy’s shoulder collided with his jaw.  The dim reflected light of the streetlamp showed him Billy’s head jerking.  He was mumbling something under his breath.  Steve leaned his head out of the danger zone, lifting his hand and patting Billy’s abs, and Billy shuddered, shaking his head slowly back and forth, and curled onto his side with a groan.

“Hargrove,” Steve tried, keeping his voice even.  “Billy Hargrove.”

Billy’s ribcage jerked again, and his eyes opened.  He stared at the wall as the saltwater that had collected in his eyes spilled to the pillow, then shut his eyes again.  “...d’jou drool on me,” he asked thickly.

“...think so,” Steve leaned on his elbow, heart racing.  “...was that a nightmare?”

“Nah,” Billy cleared his throat, curling tighter.  “Just meditating on a nice _fishing trip.”_

“Was it, uh, was it your dad--”

“No, _actually,_ I was in a _trunk,_ asswipe,” Billy flung an arm out to smack him.

“...shit.”

“You fucking _\--kidnapped_ me, the fuck are you _\--snuggling--_ get _off--”_

“Sorry.”  Steve scooted away to sit at the end of the bed, and listen to Billy’s shaky breathing.

“Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Go ahead say whatever the hell you’re gonna--”

“I was thinking ‘Your turn!’” Steve admitted, and Billy choked on a laugh.  “...shit, that means it’s my turn again.”

“...that how it works?”

“Apparently.”

“You gonna drag me outta bed again?” Billy’s foot, a fuzzy lump under layers of blankets, nudged Steve’s knee.  He squeezed it.

“...I don’t always run for it.”  It was hard to tell under the blankets, but he ran his thumb over what was probably the arch of Billy’s foot.  “I fell asleep in the kitchen Monday afternoon and dreamed Mike showed up to yell at me because he’d found his parents half eaten, and handed me a foot--”

“What the f--?!  Why the--” Billy paused to listen, but his silent laughing was shaking the bed.

“--and of course Dustin was there, and Mrs. Byers, and we had to go find El and Will--she’s--”

“Will’s the kid that...had the funeral?”

“Yeah, so she’s screaming and crying that we have to get to him, we have to save Will, I can’t let him _die,_ but the only car we had to drive was a _stick shift,_ and so I’m trying to go for help and the engine keeps dying and she’s yelling how it’s my fault if he dies, and Dustin’s yelling _driving advice in my ear_ \--”

Billy cracked up.  “Fuck, you are _broken,_ what the fuck is wrong with you--”

Steve snorfled, trying to suppress laughter, and rubbed tears from his eyes.  “I know.”

After a silence that felt like at least a quarter-hour, Billy took a deep breath, and kicked the blanket into Steve’s hip.  “I can teach you to drive stick.”

“Thought you were already working on that,” Steve snickered, and Billy kicked him again, laughing.  

“Shut up.  You want me to?”

“...yeah, sure,” Steve ducked his head, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm trying this out:
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> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:  
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	5. Set it on fire, see what remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeeep the chapter count went up AGAIN. But! Next chapter's a good way done, and I'm confident of this chapter count! The last chapter's an epilogue, and also more than half written. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Billy can't go from terrible to sorta okay all at once, he's still gonna have some...backslides._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long--I'm frantically trying to get the next chapter done since the new season's out, but a lot's been going on, I got married, for one thing? 
> 
> Thank you to tbehartoo, EmoButterfly, SusieCarter, SionainnShay, lifebloom, and of course BAVZEL for cheerleading and brainstorming!
> 
> Crap, so sorry, didn't edit the chapter number after I lost my first draft!

With his nose properly pressed into the smell of Billy Hargrove, sleep was uneventful, and Steve woke groggy, dreaming he was tunneling out of a loaf of fresh bread.  His head didn’t throb, his brain seemed to be receiving the full palette of colours, and he hummed as he hugged the blankets, kicking his feet and pulling his pillow over his head.

His stomach growled.  

Yanking the thickest blanket off the bed, he padded downstairs in search of the bread smell, to hear Billy singing softly, then leaned around the corner to see him shirtless in stocking feet and very tight jeans, dancing around a pan on the stove.  He flipped a pancake--Steve’s mouth started over-supplying saliva, and he swallowed--and slid back across the floor to the sink to turn the water on, grab a bottle of tequila out of the mess of measuring cups and spoons, and take a couple swallows.

“Pour some sugar on me,” Billy sang under his breath, “Ooo, in the name of love/Pour some sugar on meeeeeee,” He shuffled around to dump the dirty utensils in the sink.

Steve leaned in the doorway, until the hip swaying got to him, then waited for another pancake to be settled in the pan to cook before sliding his arms around Billy’s folded ones.

 _“Fuck_ you, Harrington!” Billy jerked in his arms.

“Pancakes?” Steve frowned around the kitchen, letting his hips sway with Billy’s.  

“Found some mix in there.  The fuck do you _eat,”_ Billy snorted, but graciously leaned his head to the side when Steve started kissing his neck.

“Mmm.  Take-out.  There’s some TV dinners in the freezer.”

“...and pancakes,” Billy shrugged, and Steve grinned, biting his shoulder.  

“Thanks, man,” Steve licked over the marks he was making.  “They look good.”

“...I can fucking _make pancakes,”_ Billy snorted, ducking his head.  “You know I can _read,_ right.”  He slid the finished pancake on a plate in the oven.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Steve licked his lips to blow a loud raspberry against the side of Billy’s neck, sliding a hand up his shirt as he tried to wriggle away just as the phone rang. 

“Steve,” Nancy breathed, when he answered.

“...yeah?  Oh.”  He grimaced at the clock.

“Yeah, you missed first period.  Everything okay?”

“I slept in,” he tried to keep his grin from being _too_ audible, but she laughed.  

“...is Billy there?”

“Yeah, uh, he’s making pancakes.”  

“There’s no syrup,” Billy announced from the kitchen.  “I’m putting ice cream on them.”

“...they’re gonna be so good,” Steve whispered.

“You sound like you slept well,” she fished, but he didn’t mind.

“So well.  He’s like a good luck charm, all in all I must’ve slept like…”

“Twelve hours,” Billy dropped to sit next to him against the wall, and handed over a plate.  

 _“Twelve hours,”_ he breathed, licking where the Rocky Road was dripping over the edge of his plate.

“...I guess he was the right raccoon to feed.”  She still sounded doubtful.

“He’s kinda fun sometimes,” he took a big bite of pancake, and groaned.

“He’s...fun.”

“I need to hang up and eat these pancakes,” he informed her.  

“You...sound...good.  I, uh, we didn’t really get a chance to talk, but I did talk to Will--oh, I gotta go, I’ll see you later.”

When he’d hung up, Billy was watching him sidelong. _“...fun.”_

“We had a slumber party,” Steve chopped up his pancake, inwardly grinning at Billy’s glower.

“I’m not _fun,_ Harrington.”

“I’ve got ice cream pancakes,” Steve packed his mouth full, then grinned over--a technique he’d learned from Dustin to end conversations.  

Billy stared.  After a long second, he put his plate down, frowning at Steve and opening his mouth, but just then the kettle whistled.  “...hot chocolate,” he said, and Steve leaned over to kiss him, licking the chocolate taste out of his mouth.

“This must be why I was dragging you along,” Steve sat his plate down and ran in to the kitchen to turn off the shriek.   

“...what?” he heard faintly.

“Dream Steve was saving you from the monsters,” he called, fixing up two mugs of sugary caffeine.  “If you hadn’t screamed your head off, we might have ended up anywhere.”

“...you tried to drag me down the stairs,” Billy yelled back.

“You coulda walked down.  I wasn’t risking my...pancake maker, I guess?”

“Dream Steve appreciates a good cocksucker,” Billy laughed.

Steve dropped next to him, handing over the bird mug, and chugging his powdery-tasting instant coffee/chocolate paste.  Billy wrinkled his nose, but sipped at his own, poking the bites of pancake around his plate.

“Hey,” Steve leaned to bump shoulders.  “You coming back tonight?”

“...when the hell do you do homework,” Billy stared at him.

“I’ll actually get some done today,” Steve stuffed the last of his pancake in his mouth, “Fince I swept.”

“...fince--oh.  Swallow your food.  Maybe?”

Steve shrugged, taking his empty dishes back in the kitchen.  “I’d be fine with a movie, probably, but--I mean, it’s weird, I like having you over.  Oh--” he leaned his head back out, “All that shit in your car?  You can leave it here, if you want.  Your clothes and stuff.  If you need more room.”  He turned on his heel to wash his dishes, hearing silence, then a clatter from the front room, and stomping toward him.

“The fuck are you talking about.  What do you _want,”_ Billy stalked up, open hand raised.

“Sure hope I don’t drop this plate,” Steve hummed, and Billy growled, then hefted himself up onto the counter.

“The fuck is going on.  Just _tell_ me, I’m not a complete moron, I’ll know what to _do,_ just--”

“Shit, sorry,” Steve slid the plate under the hot water and stepped over to pull Billy against him.  “Just.  Some weird shit.  Some lab released some weird shit.”

“Am I _bait?”_ he leaned in for a kiss as Steve blinked up at him.  “Just tell me what you want.”

“What?”

“You’re too fucking nice,” Billy whispered in his ear.  “You pretending to get over Nancy?  What is this shit,” he held Steve’s head close, leaning in for a kiss that left Steve’s lips slightly numb and his heart pounding, and the taste of chocolate and tequila in his mouth.  The room felt chilly against his face when Billy pulled away.  “Tell me the fucking rules, Harrington.  Use small words I’ll understand.”

“Jesus,” Steve sighed.  “...shut up, Hargrove.”

“Why d’you keep wanting my face up here,” Billy whispered in his ear, his hands sliding down Steve’s back to his butt, and squeezing, “--when you could have my face down _there._ You know I’ll _do_ it--I’ll do whatever the fuck you--”

Steve kissed him just to shut him up, sliding his hands around and up under Billy’s shirt to the warm skin he’d found the night before and gotten an offended yelp.  It worked again, prompting a rapid-fire explosion of expletives, and he staggered back under the weight of a squirming Billy Hargrove scrambling away from his fingers, off the counter, and wrapping both legs around his waist.  Steve wrapped his right arm around Billy’s shoulders, and his left hand under his ass, stumbling back against a chair.  He squinted in pain as Billy’s hands yanked at his hair, grabbing him around the neck and shoulders.  “--easy there--I’m not gonna drop you, dude.”

Billy slowly unwound his fingers from their clench in Steve’s shirt and hair, and lowered a leg to the ground, disentangling himself with his eyes lowered.  

“Hey,” Steve kissed one of Billy’s retreating hands, and Billy swallowed, turning back to grab Steve’s shirt and shove him back into the chair with another sudden, hard kiss that pinched Steve’s lip between their teeth.  That done, Billy shoved away without making eye contact, stomped out of the kitchen, and slammed out the front door.  “What the hell!” Steve yelled after him, turning off the water.  He ran up to put actual clothes on, and heard a knock as he hopped in one leg of his jeans, scrambling for his watch.  It came again twice as he did up his fly and ran down the stairs.  He opened the door to see Billy’s back, kicking chunks of broken bottle off the steps.  

“It won’t start,” he muttered, taking a deep draw on his cigarette and kicking another shard until it came loose from the melted and refrozen snow.  “My car won’t start.”

“Is it the battery?” Steve suggested, having had to start the car periodically in cold weather before he could legally drive.

“Who gives a shit, I’m _stuck,_ I--” he sat on the cleared step.  “Can I use your phone to call…” he took a slow breath.  “I need to call home.”

“Fuck no,” Steve dropped next to him.  “I’ve got cables.  I’ll give you a jump, first.”

Billy grabbed his face and kissed him, fingers in his hair, still breathing smoke like a dragon, and Steve leaned into it, his own fingers more careful around the scab above Billy’s right ear. 

“...how’s your head, babe?”

“Stop calling me that, it’s weird,” Billy snorted, following his lips for another kiss.

“Mmn,” Steve relaxed into it, enjoying the warm minty smokiness of Billy’s mouth, the brush of his stubble, and the wet heat of his tongue.  “Mnn.  Billy.  Lemme jump you.”

“Yeah,” Billy breathed against his mouth, letting his jacket slide off his shoulders, and Steve yanked it back up, pulling him close for a quick squeeze.  

“Your _car,_ Hargrove.”

 

It _was_ the battery, and Billy’s shoulders relaxed like a dropped marionette as the engine caught.  He leaned his head against the steering wheel, taking deep breaths.  

Steve reached in the driver’s side window.  “You all right?” _Once I get my fingers in his hair, it’s like they’re magnetized,_ Steve thought with dismay, running his thumb up and down the side of Billy’s neck, his fingers in the silky curls.  “Kinda still taste like tequila.”

As usual, Billy’s smirk looked half amused, half wary.  He didn’t answer, just stuck his cigarette in his mouth and gunned the motor, waggling his fingers out the window as he pulled into the road.

 

In class, Nancy’s corduroy slacks whooshed as she sped to Steve’s desk to look him over.  “You’re alive.”

“I dunno,” Steve raised his eyebrows.  “Did you wanna check my pulse?”

“I don’t see any bruises,” her eyes narrowed.  “Are you coming to the game Wednesday?” 

“Oh hell,” he let himself slide down in his seat.  “I think Dustin got Mike to make me a character.  Are you playing?”

“Probably not.  We should talk, though,” she shrugged, waving to Jonathan.

“...is Jonathan coming?” he frowned over.

“Nah, I think Will likes to hang with just his friends,” she was still waving like a nerd, smile huge, and Steve sighed, leaning his face on his hand.  “And I think that might be too many players?  He’s already got Will, Lucas, and Dustin, I know he invited Eleven, Lucas wants Max there, Dustin wants you…”

“Oh, I’m sure Dustin wants you too,” he watched her bite her lip in a shy grin at Jonathan, and wondered if her arm would get tired.  Whether she’d have to learn the parade wave pageant winners used.

Jonathan was waving back--from like two seats away--but he caught Steve’s eyeroll, and lowered his hand.

“No, wave, wave,” Steve pushed Nancy’s bag against her back, nudging her up the aisle.  “You two look like morons, just go annoy _him.”_

She squeezed his hand--hers were so much smaller and thinner than Billy’s, he thought, nearly letting a snicker escape as he thought both of the night before, and Billy doing the stupid courtship wave dance she was doing--and sauntered over to Jonathan.  Instead of confidently dropping to sit on his desk, though, she got over there and...waved some more, tucking her hair behind her ear, and Steve covered a wistful snort.  

 

After class, she pulled him to her locker.  “So I talked to Will.”  

“Shit, yeah,” he winced.  “Sorry I slept through lunch yesterday.  What’d he say?”

“Oh, well, I mean, he kinda wants to talk somehow without Dustin, Mike, and Lucas, if you can...you slept through _everything_ yesterday,” she cocked her head.  “You look better today.”

“Yeah, we can figure something out, if Jonathan will let him get me alone,” he grimaced.  “What the hell did _you_ tell _him--_ but yeah, I slept more than I have since…” he ran his fingers through his hair, thinking.  “I think the tunnels?  I was fine until I knew they could just come _back.”_

She nodded, clutching her books to her chest, jaw set.  “We’ll be ready for them.”

“I’d kinda wanted to do other things with my life, I mean, we can’t be everywhere at once, what if something--” he waved an arm, nearly smacking Jonathan in the face.  

“You guys are talking about Will?” he frowned between them, and Steve dropped his books, crouching to take a long time to pick them up, and hoping his face would be less red by the time he stood.  

“He, ah, he’s coming over Wednesday, to play Mike’s game,” Nancy failed at covering the awkwardness.

“...I know?”  Steve couldn’t see the expression on Jonathan’s face from his new home on the floor of the hallway, so he stopped pretending to be clumsy, and glanced up.  Jonathan’s eyes were wide.  “What’s going on.  What happened.”

“No, it’s not--” Nancy gently clasped his hand, and Steve dove in to the conversation.

“Will asked about his _love life,_ he was too embarrassed to ask you, just pretend you didn’t hear anything?”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, but he frowned between them, holding Nancy’s hand.  “Why would he go to--either of you?”

“Maybe Dustin’s been building me up?”  Steve shrugged, hoping his pounding heart didn’t translate to his face getting redder. _I kinda understand why Billy wants it a secret suddenly,_ he thought, his stomach clenching as he imagined the faces of the classmates passing around him curling in disgust, or Hopper no longer clapping him on the shoulder. _What if they don’t want me around kids anymore?_ He took a deep breath.

Jonathan rolled his eyes.  “He can tell me _anything,_ he knows that--”

“Maybe he just wants to listen to music sometimes and not always have a big problem,” Steve suggested, familiar with the eternal sympathy on Nancy’s face, and Jonathan cocked his head, considering.

“...yeah, okay.  I won’t bug him.”

“You’re still his favorite,” Nancy nudged him with her elbow, and he grinned, ducking his head.  Steve sighed, sorting his textbooks unnecessarily.

“...but one of you’ll tell me if anything...big happens?”

“I think we’ll let that be up to him,” she smiled back.  “But I don’t think anything big is going to happen.”

Steve had a burst of inspiration.  “He’s just thinking about things.  You know, Dustin liking Max, Lucas liking Max, you two being together, he wants to know everyone will stay friends, it’s weird for him.  He missed a lot of it.”

“Oh!” Jonathan blinked, then grimaced.  “Oh, okay.  That makes sense, I guess.”  He had his arm around Nancy, and she shrugged at Steve.  

“I’ll see you tonight, then?”

“Oh.  Yeah,” he held up his hand to wave, and stopped.  “You guys have made waving weird now.” They laughed, shifting their feet, and Steve turned to go to class.

 

The D&D game was about vampires, apparently.  Dustin had said “I vant to suck your blood” so many times Lucas just smacked his face with a pillow every time he opened his mouth, in between bossing Max around and pulling the Basic Set book towards himself every time she asked a question.  Having spent the last twenty-four hours watching a similar set of tense shoulders, Steve waved to Eleven, who was staring at Mike, brows knitted.  “Hey, how about you team up with Max, or me, or Nancy--” he waved to her from where she was holding up the doorway, “‘cause these little douchebags are all being more annoying than usual.”

Dustin gasped.  “How dare you.”

“Yeah, _I’m_ about to go home,” Max bared her teeth, yanking the book back.  

“I read all the rules,” Eleven frowned between Mike and Max.  “Why can’t I play?”

“Play together,” Nancy clambered by the row of chairs.  “Will, could you help Steve?  You guys are terrible at explaining.”  

Max sighed.  “Look, I guess this looks fun and all--”

“Don’t leave!” Lucas pleaded, wide-eyed.  “I’m sorry!  El, come over here! We’ll leave you alone!”

“We just want you to _win,”_ Dustin snorted, huffing over to sit next to Lucas, who was scrambling to move to Eleven’s seat.  

“Why are you explaining different rules to me,” she frowned at her book, then at Mike.  “I thought I learned the correct rules. Did I learn the wrong rules?”

“These are _optional,_ they’re our _house_ rules based on the _magazine supplements--”_ Mike huffed.

“Eleven,” Max waved her over with the book.  “He’s just gonna grow up to be a tax accountant, he thinks this mess is fun.”

“There is some older English in the text,” Nancy crouched next to Eleven with some printouts.  “Here--”

“Are we gonna _murder some vampires_ or _what,_ here,” Steve settled in at the opposite end of the table from Mike, next to Will, who flashed a shy grin at him.  

“Oh hey, Steve, Dustin’s mom is taking Max home, could you drop Will?” Nancy asked turning the page she was showing Eleven.

“Oh,” Steve shrugged.  “Sure.”

“I want to ride with Steve.”  Max leaned around Eleven to get a look at the printouts, but Nancy and Eleven leaned away.

“And meeeee, take me too, drop me off laaast.”  Dustin leaned in, dropping his head on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve shoved him back, grinning and shrugging to Nancy.  

 _“That’s_ why I got the invite, you guys just wanted a taxi.”

Max leaned around Will and punched his shoulder, raising her eyebrows at him, and he shrugged, trying to figure out a route that gave Max whatever she wanted, with nobody that didn’t know about he and Billy in the car, and Will a chance for his awkward as hell questionnaire.  “I _can_ drop everybody, but it’ll be, uh,  Dustin, then Eleven, then Max, then Will.”

“That makes no sense,” Dustin frowned over.  “I live right by Max, so Billy can live on his trashpile--”

“We don’t live _in_ the junkyard,” Max snorted.  “I mean, Billy might.”

“Probably,” Lucas put in, grinning over, and most of the heads around the table nodded.  “He probably sneaks out at night and nests in the broken bottles.  Eats the rusty razor blades.”

“Maybe he wants to punch the Lorax and spread pollution to the world,” Mike rolled his eyes, glaring up the basement stairs at the door, through which they could hear his mom’s voice and the word ‘Clifford’.  “I think I’d start liking him.”  

“He’ll become a pollution supervillain,” Dustin cackled.  

Max snorted.  “Rotten Billy.”  

“Living in a trash can like Oscar the Grouch,” Lucas made a face.

“Corruption Hargrove,” Dustin suggested.  “Billy the Foul, stalking the trash whenever there’s smog...”

“His big attack can be ‘Extinction Event,’” Mike put in, shuffling papers.  “Does his name still have to be ‘Billy’?  I mean, you wouldn’t call Darth Vader, like, D. V.  Or is it like…Demolition William?”

“I tried calling him Willy, he didn’t like it,” Max shrugged.  “Maybe Demolition Willy.”

Will wrinkled his nose, shaking his head, then blinked large eyes at Steve, who had raised his character sheet to hide his face.

“Come on, though, I get to come, we’re pals!”  Dustin threw his arms around Will, staring into Steve’s face from two inches away.  “Why’re you trying to get rid of me? _Eleven’s_ the _farthest!”_

“Eleven’s all right,” Will said in a small voice, and Steve snorted, rubbing his face.  Will scrambled for tact.  “I mean, Mom’s just been so worried, it’s nice to be out.  Longer.”

“Smooth,” Max patted his shoulder, and he reddened.

“Fiiiiiine,” Dustin huffed, frowning between them, and narrowing his eyes at Steve.  “We’re going to talk about this, young man.  Don’t you laugh at me, _Steve Harrington!”_

“Now you sound like Billy,” Steve hummed as Dustin gasped in horror, and Steve cocked his head, actually reading his character sheet.  The only part he could make sense of was his name.  “...hang on, I’m a girl?”

“That a problem?” Max smiled over from where she and Eleven had their heads together.

“Nancy helped design the campaign,” Mike said breezily, and Steve eyed her wide, innocent smile.  Her companionable perch on the stairs suddenly looked more like she was surveying prey.

 _“Anyway,”_ Mike smacked his pad of notes on the table, and cleared his throat.

“Hang on,” Dustin reached over to clasp Steve’s shoulder.  “Do you need hot chocolate for this darksome and frightening tale?”

“Fuck you.”  Steve shoved him off, grinning.  “I’m not in withdrawal yet.”

“ANYWAY!”  Mike rolled his notebook, waving it at Dustin.  “Shut up, dickwads.”

“We’re _doing_ this thing,” Lucas waggled his eyebrows, and got smacked, being closer to hand than Dustin.

“One of your group of adventurers receives a _letter,”_ Mike began.  

“I’ll read it,” Lucas grabbed it, and Mike slid down in his chair with a long groan.  “‘Hail to thee of might and valor, I, a lowly servant of Barovia, send honor to thee.  We plead for thy so desperately needed assistance.’”

“We will help these people, and about our feats, I shall write glorious song!” Dustin shouted, standing, and Mike leaned over for full Haymaker range of motion and whacked him again.  “Dude!”

“Shut up, y’all,” Lucas rolled his eyes.  “‘The _love_ of my _life--’”_

“It’s Max!” Will gasped, and Max flailed around Eleven trying to hit him, bright red.  “The love of _Lucas’_ life!”

 _“‘The love of my life,’”_ Lucas hid behind the letter, voice suddenly higher, “--says the _letter writer,_ ‘Ireena Kolyana, has been afflicted by an evil so deadly--’”

“Wait, that’s me, actually, Ireena Kolyana,” Steve frowned at his sheet.

“It’s _actually_ Max,” Will blinked innocent eyes up at Steve, and this time Eleven leaned to the side to let Max smack him with the book.  He cackled, batting her away. “It’s true!”

“Fuck off, Will,” Lucas shook the letter at him.  “My _character_ doesn’t know Max!”

“Lucas should be rescuing _Max,”_ Mike nodded, grinning with relief at not having read it himself.  His cheeks were pink as he glanced at Eleven.

Eleven raised her hand.  “So we’re rescuing Steve, though?”

“Why am I the princess?” Steve wrinkled his nose.

“Nancy did it!”  Dustin pointed.

“She is _suffering from an evil so deadly,”_ Lucas shouted, smacking the table, “--even the good people of our village cannot protect her.  She languishes in fear and nightmare--”

“Oh come _on,”_ Steve felt his cheeks heat, as Lucas dissolved into giggles, and Mike’s smirk stretched evilly.  Max _cackled,_ leaning her head against Eleven’s shoulder, and even Eleven was smirking at Will, who was leaning away from Steve, shoulders shaking with giggles.  Steve raised his chin, folding his arms.  “If I’m in a glass coffin, I’m going home!”

Lucas wiped his eyes, trying to breathe.  “The letter says, ‘I would have her saved from this menace.’  Who _is_ this, Steve, your fiance?”

“I will marry only my true love,” Steve announced, slumping lower in his chair.  “I don’t _care_ if one of _you_ idiots rescues me.”

Max erupted into giggles, leaning back in her chair and wheezing with laughter.  “Your--your true love--Steve--oh my god--I’m telling--I’m _telling,_ Steve--”

“Don’t you _dare,”_ he hissed back, trying to restrain his own horrified cackles.  

 _“I’m_ rescuing Steve!” Dustin wailed.

“Isn’t it Nancy?  His true love?”  Lucas leaned to ask Mike, who shrugged, watching Eleven’s bemused smile at Max's sniggering. _“Ahem,”_ Lucas cocked his head at Max.  “Oh.  No, hey, dudes, this isn’t Steve’s fiancé, it’s his _dad._ ‘I, the Burgomeister of Barovia, send you honor--and despair.  My adopted daughter, the fair Ireena Kolyana--’  Wait.  Nasty,” Lucas wrinkled his nose.  “His adopted daughter is the love of his life?  Gross, Nancy!”

“That part’s in the book,” she rolled her eyes.

“Uhhh,” Dustin squeezed Steve’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry, dude.  At least you’re pretty?”

“Well then, come rescue me, already,” Steve made a face at Nancy, and her smile grew.  He leaned away suspiciously.

“Oh, _also_ gross,” Lucas wrinkled his nose, “‘Fair Ireena Kolyana has been these past nights bitten by a vampyr.’  Some _gross dude_ is chewing on your _neck,_ man.”

At this sympathy, Max yelled incoherently, slumping over the back of her chair, Will yelped with laughter, and Nancy leaned against the wall to support her giggles, clapping Lucas’ performance.  

Eleven opened her mouth, closed it, and whispered something to Will, who nodded, wiping his eyes.  She turned a narrow-eyed stare on Steve.  Dustin, Lucas, and Mike were cocking their heads, frowning at each other, then at Steve.  He popped his collar, hoping it’d hide the hickies Billy’d left on his neck, and waved the group onward--meeting eyes with Nancy, who had a hand over her mouth to smother her giggles.  Steve narrowed his eyes at her, baring his teeth.

Lucas’ jaw firmed--Steve suspected Max would have to dodge a lot of questions later--but he pressed on.  “‘For over four hundred years, this creature has drained the life blood of my people.  Now my dear Ireena languishes her nights away--”

Here, Steve dropped his forehead to the table, as Max nearly fell off her chair in paroxysms of laughter.  Lucas just raised his voice and kept reading.  “I _said_ she _languishes, ‘_ because of the _unholy taint_ caused by this vile beast.’”

“Steve,” Dustin squeezed his hand gently, obviously not getting the joke, but delighting in Steve’s horror, “-- _are_ you languishing?”

“Sh’up,” he said, into the tablecloth.

“Ooo.  Guys, hey.”  Lucas flapped a hand for their attention.  “It’s not just Princess Steve.  ‘There is much wealth in this community.  I offer all that might be had to thee and thy fellows if thou shalt but answer my desperate plea.  Come quickly, for her time is at hand!  All that I have shall be thine!  Kolyan Indirovich’.”  Lucas folded it, nodding seriously.  “Wow, do you think somebody has to kiss Steve?  It's for a _lot_ of money.”

“Gross!” Mike snorted, but Max buried her face in her arms, gasping with laughter.

“I guess anybody’s better than my creepy asshole dad,” Steve made a face, ignoring Nancy’s slow cackling collapse against the stairs.  

“He’s still _‘only marrying his true love,’_ though,” Will giggled.

“Yeah, well, I have _taste,”_ Steve muttered, and Max whooped.

“You don’t,” she wheezed.  “You don’t, you really don’t--”

“I will kiss you, Steve,” Eleven reached around Will to pat his shoulder, grinning.  “On the hand.  If someone has to.”

“Ouch!” Lucas and Mike were cackling nearly as hard as Max, though they only had half the joke.  

“If she _must,”_ Mike snagged the letter back.

“Might just have to floozy it up with your rescuer,” Max raised her head, wiping her eyes.  “I mean, if you want out of the coffin.”

Steve’s lungs hurt from laughing.  “You’re all terrible.  You want me to marry some random dipshit who makes out with me when I’m asleep?”

“Point!” Nancy called, still wheezing.  “If there’s any of that, it’ll be a blown kiss only.” 

“Aww, I’ll do it,” Dustin’s mouth twitched, before he burst into giggles--the last holdout sunk.  “If everybody else votes to _leave_ you.”

“You little douchebags,” Steve muttered, grinning.  

“Okay!” Lucas punched the air.  “Let’s go kiss Steve!”  Max, Eleven, and Will echoed the chant.  “Kiss Steve!  Kiss Steve!”  

Dustin yelled “He’s mine!” then shrugged at Steve’s raised eyebrows.

“Guys!  That’s _not_ the _adventure,”_ Mike wailed, falling sideways on the table and giggling into his arm.

When Mike’s mom demanded they all go home for the evening--casting a leery eye at Steve--he stood and stretched.  “Totally unrescued, you all suck.”

“We barely _arrived,_ dude,” Lucas shoulder checked him, climbing by to try and convince Max to stay over.

“I can’t,” she narrowed her eyes at Steve, over his shoulder.  

“We could both stay here,” Lucas flapped his hands in the pockets of his flak jacket.

“What part of ‘can’t’ is confusing you, dipshit,” she bared her teeth at him.  

Lucas quailed.  “I just--I don’t--”

“Get used to it,” she grunted, then turned back and punched his shoulder.  “I’ll be okay.  Really.”

“What,” Eleven frowned between them. _“Are_ you okay?  Really?”

Lucas and Max looked at each other, and shared an inordinately sincere shoulder-bump.

“All right, everybody who doesn’t live here or next door, come load up.”  Steve glanced down as Will sighed, sliding down in the chair and kicking his feet.  “Come on, I’ll drop you last.”

“Okay,” he shrugged, hunching his shoulders and swallowing.  

“Anybody eating this pizza?”  Max held it up, and Dustin held up his hands.

“It’s all yours.”  

Dustin’s ongoing whine about being the first drop-off was quelled by his position in the shotgun seat, where he proudly seated himself after Max, Will, and Eleven had climbed in.  He was obviously trying to get them all in a debate about the likelihood of a haunting in Hawkins, lingering in the car after they pulled up at his drive, and finally, Max just reached around to open the door and shoved him out, climbing after him and settling in the front seat.

Dustin leaned back in, waving jovially, and Steve waved back.  “Yeah, yeah, soon. I promise.”

“We’ll let you rot in your glass coffin if you break promises,” Dustin yelled after them.

Steve started the drive to Hopper’s cabin, getting directions from Eleven.  She had her arm around Will, who was breathing harshly.  

Steve pulled over on to the shoulder, biting his lips.  “You okay?”

Will nodded.  

“Keep going,” Eleven squeezed his hand, and he leaned into her.

“Uh,” Steve frowned at the two of them, then Max.  “...Will, d’you want Eleven here?”  

He nodded, swallowing.

“How the fuck come everybody wants to talk to Steve.  What’s going on.”  Max frowned between them.  “Nancy made sure _Will_ got a ride from _\--oh.”_ She leaned back and prodded Will’s shoulder.  “You _know._ Don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Eleven frowned between Steve and Max, and Steve turned away to stare out at the road, and pull his knees up.

“He’s fucking _Billy,_ he’s _kissing_ him, he’s letting my _brother_ put his _gross face_ on _his_ face, they’re touching _everything--”_ Max just _kept going_ , and Steve muttered “Christ,” flailing a hand back to flick her cheek.  He and Will took identical shaky breaths.

“...Billy is the vampire,” Eleven’s eyes widened.  “The ‘gross man chewing on your neck’.”

“Oh my god,” Steve wrapped his arms around his head, trying to suppress giggles.  

“That’s why they were laughing,” Eleven raised her eyebrows, nodding.  

“Yeeep, yeah, okay.”  Max folded her arms. “We haven’t even passed my place yet, I can grill you later.”

“What?” Steve frowned over.  

“Just drop me off and--” she waved a hand.  “Let them do whatever--” she waved at Will, whose fingers were clenched in the knees of his pants.  “Lemme talk at you tomorrow morning, Steve Harrington.”

“Eugh.  Okay.”  Steve stomped the gas and swung the car around in a u-turn, Will whooped, and Max grabbed for the roll bar.  

“Jesus fuck,” she glared over.  “You asswipes deserve each other.”

At her house, Billy was smoking a cigarette on the curb.  He sauntered over, and Max groaned, then snickered, shaking her head.  “Man, you are not going to get that ‘private talk.’”  She climbed out as Steve rolled his window down for Billy to rest his elbows in it.  Crouched against the door, the light from the house blocked by Steve’s car, he was nearly invisible.

“Hey Harrington,” he smirked in, reaching to lift Steve’s hand off the steering wheel, and Steve squeezed it, conscious of Will’s wide eyes in the rearview mirror.  

“Hey,” he grinned back, running his thumb over Billy’s palm, and Billy snatched his hand back, head cocked.  

“...what’re you doing tonight?” he rested his chin on his arms, and Steve snorted.

“You hitching a ride?”

“Just to the next town, stranger,” Billy grinned, leaning his head in, and Steve leaned away.  “Come on, get in.”  

Billy’s eyes narrowed, but he came around, and slid in shotgun, nearly leaping out of his skin as Eleven said “Hello again,” from the depths of the back seat.  Steve swallowed a laugh, then choked in earnest, and Billy shoved him against the door.

“Hello,” Will said in a small voice, and Billy squinted.  

“How the hell many of you are back there?”

“Eleven,” said Eleven, and Billy glowered at Steve.

“You’re Steve’s…”  Will’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Steve gunned the engine to get off of Scary Hargrove Street as Billy glared into the backseat.

“I’m his _what.”_

 _How are there so many shitty parents around that I’m...what, now?  An older brother?  A...dad?  A babysitter who gives Important Talks?_   He braced himself.  “Uh, Billy’s…”  He could see the silhouette of Billy’s head turn to look at him, and his words fled.

“Speak up, Harrington,” Billy turned in his seat so his back was against the door.  “The fuck is this going.”

“Will saw you kissing,” Eleven spoke up, Billy inhaled sharply, and Steve slapped his hand over to dig his fingers into Billy’s knee.

“We did do that,” he let go at Billy’s lack of an explosion, patting around for his hand, and finding his ankle, which he squeezed.  “Don’t tell anyone else, okay?  Billy’s dad’s already an asshole to end all assholes.”  Billy’s pulse was pounding against his fingers.

“M-my dad says I’m a faggot too,” Will’s voice was hoarse, and squeaked around the edges.  Steve’s eyebrows were nearly at his hairline as he tried to think of somewhere they could pull over without anyone recognizing his car. _I’m four years older,_ he tried to convince himself. _I’ve seen more, I can handle this._

“Fuck, are you?!” Billy said, startled.  

“I don’t _know,”_ Will sniffled.  “I don’t know--I’m different, even _Mom_ says I’m different--”

Steve turned and parked in front of a random house.  “Um.  Uh,” he leaned his head against the steering wheel, trying to ignore Billy’s shocked snickering.  

“I’m sorry,” Will sounded like he was rubbing his face, and suppressing sobs.  “I’m sorry, I’ll shut up--don’t--I’ll stay quiet about it--”

“No, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Steve sat up again, flailing around.  “Okay.  I mean.  Even if you _are,”_ he tried to imagine what Mrs. Byers would say, wishing Will would just _talk to his mom._ “Even--even if you are.  Queer.  If you’re a--a queer.  Is--is that so bad?”

Billy kicked him.  “Well he can’t just go _telling_ people, jesus, Harrington.  He’ll get his ass kicked.”

“Yeah--yeah, I know,” Steve floundered.  “But Eleven doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” she confirmed, sounding both certain and mystified.

“Jonathan.  Jonathan wouldn’t mind.  Nancy definitely won’t.”   _Note to self,_ Steve thought, _tell Nancy to read Jonathan and his mom all those depressing queer stories.  Ha._

“Mike will not care,” Eleven said in a low, determined voice.  “Or _Hopper.”_

“...didn’t your mom bring you back from the dead, or something,” Billy snorted.  “She a good mom?”

Will must have nodded, because Billy continued.  “Then she’ll love you anyway.”

“Okay,” Will’s lungs were starting to calm down, though he still sounded half underwater, and his breathing was all off-kilter.  “Okay.  Lucas and--Lucas and Dustin are gonna hate me--I’m already Zombie Boy and now--”

“What the fucking nailbat’s for, right?” Billy muttered, glancing at Steve.  “Zombie Boy, what the fuck--”

“No!  No, I mean, they won’t, I’ll talk to them,” Steve offered, lifting his hand to reach back, then lowering it, feeling it wasn’t his place to pat Will’s head.  “If I tell…” he took a deep breath, and Billy’s foot nudged his side again.  “Once they know about _me,_ we’ll, uh, know what they’ll think.”

“Max doesn’t care,” Billy cocked his head.  “Wait, no,” he snorted.  “She just hates me either way.”

“She does not,” Steve slid his hand up Billy’s pant leg again, to the bare skin of his calf.  “It’ll--it’ll be okay with the people you _like,_ Will.  Just--”

“Wait a few days,” Eleven’s voice got muffled, and Steve squinted back to see the lump of her hugging Will.  

“Yeah,” Will swallowed.  “I--I just--I feel like a _liar,_ I wasn’t--I wasn’t gonna say anything _ever_ but I feel like I’m _tricking_ them…”

“And then I fucking grabbed Steve Harrington under the kitchen window,” Billy let his head smack against the window, and Steve started giggling.  

“Super romantic.  Falling snow.”

“It wasn’t _romantic,_ Harrington--”

“So was,” Steve cackled.  “You covered in snow, me waving a bat, half naked, huge circles under my eyes--did I even have shoes on?” 

“Will wants waffles,” Eleven said, leaning up between the seats.  “Could we go somewhere and have waffles?”

“I do?” Will laughed as her hug squished him against Billy’s seat.

“They make you less lonely,” she confirmed, and Steve rubbed his face.  

“Uh--”

“There’s the IHOP, over where they’re putting the mall in,” Billy said over him.  “I haven’t eaten.  They have those gross syrups she likes.”  

Steve grinned again, ducking his head, and putting the car back in gear.  “Yeah sure, I’ll take you on a date, Hargrove, all you had to do was ask.”  

Billy went stiff.  “I wasn’t _fucking aski--”_

“Shush the eff up,” Steve pinched him, as Will’s head appeared between their shoulders.

“You guys go on dates?  You can date?”

 _Here we go,_ Steve took a deep breath, feeling his breath hiss a bit with tension.  “S-sure!  We can date!  Here we are, going to a--to a restaurant, that’s a date.”

“Nancy and Jonathan have movie dates,” Eleven poked her head up next to Will’s.  “They sit and watch movies.  One of them had a man in it that was an elephant.  They hold hands.”

“And we have done that, that is a thing we have done,” Steve nodded several times too many.

“Jesus christ,” Billy let his head thunk against the window.  

“My mom used to go dancing,” Will said in a small voice, and Steve threw all caution to the wind.

“Billy dances in my kitchen,” Steve ignored the muttered instruction to fuck himself from the other side of the car.  “I could invite everyone over and dance, if I wanted.  With Billy.”

“Go to fucking Disneyland, hold hands on the roller coasters,” Billy sighed into the window, and Steve bit his lips against a grin, and the urge to pull over and kiss him.

“Or a, like, a drive-in movie, we could even make out.  We should actually do that,” Steve cocked his head, catching Billy’s glance out of the corner of his eye.

 _“Disneyland,”_ Will whispered.

“What’s Disneyland?” Eleven asked, and Steve sped around a corner, grinning, as Will tried to explain carnival rides.  

“Around here we’ve got the arcade, but not _roller coasters,”_ he sighed.

“...there’s probably some shitty state fair,” Billy offered.  “She wouldn’t know the difference.  Apparently.”

“We could all go,” Will leaned between the seats.  “We could go this summer.  Steve.  Steve, can we?”

“Sure, why not,” Steve shrugged.  “Who likes cotton candy?”

“Jesus christ,” Billy said, again, as Steve pulled into the parking lot.  Will and Eleven scrambled out before he’d put on the parking brake, and Steve leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes.  

“You realize we’re married now,” he informed Billy, who missed the door handle, and made a scrabbling noise against the leather.

“What the _fuck.”_

“We told _Will Byers_ we’re taking him _on a date._ For _cotton candy._ It’s forever, dude, ‘till death do us part.”  Steve let his head roll to look at Billy, who was staring back in the light from the IHOP windows.

“Are you drunk.”  

“Sacred vow, man. _You_ gonna tell him we’re talking out our asses?  It’s _legal_ now.”

“...your mom fucking dropped you as a child,” Billy found the door handle, and stalked towards the IHOP.

 

In the booth, Eleven and Will were sitting on the same side, watching avidly as they slid in.  Billy widened his eyes at Steve, jaw working.  Steve gave him a menu and thumbs-up, and ignored the resulting middle finger shielded from Will and Eleven by the menu.  

“Okay, guys, have your orders figured out by the time I get back, an excellent babysitter lets people know that’s what’s going on--” he squeezed Billy’s shoulder--and probably got another middle finger at his back--and went in search of a phone.  Getting a dollar changed for the pay phone outside killed a few more minutes, and then he had to actually dial what felt like the summons for whatever’d been hanging over his head since he ran into Dustin hunting his pet Demodog. _How bad can it be?_ he muttered to himself.  _At least it’ll be the end of...waiting for...something._ When it connected, Nancy’s mom was weirdly flirty until he said he was Steve Harrington, and then didn’t want to find Nancy at all.  Finally Mike grabbed the phone and sighed “What.”

“I don’t want you, get Nancy,” Steve rolled his eyes.

“You’ve got me,” Mike huffed.  

“Fine.  Could you lend me your trigonometry notes?” Steve raised his eyebrows, and Mike sighed like his lungs had a slow leak.  

 _“Nancy!”_ he bellowed into the phone, and once Steve’s hearing returned, she was there.

“Nancy,” Steve repeated, feeling a bit shaky now he came to the pinch.  He took a deep breath and blew it out through his cheeks.  

“Yeah?” she had her eyebrows raised, he could tell.  

“Uh.  It’s Steve.”

“Yeah, I hear that.”  Now she was laughing at him.

“Uh, um.  So--first, could you let Mrs. Byers and Hopper know I’ve got their kids at IHOP, and I’m sorry, usually I’d have said no, but Will was crying--”

“Oh no, is everything okay?”

“I...think so?  He was telling me about his shitty dad…”

“...okay?”

“I panicked and he thinks Billy and I are some immortal love story now--”

She barked a laugh, smothering giggles. _“What?”_

“I don’t know, he wants us to go on a date _and bring him_ to the _state fair_ this summer to eat _cotton candy,_ so I think--”

“Oh my god,” she squeaked.

“I think we’re basically, uh, married, as far as Will’s concerned--”

“Billy’s gonna _murder_ you if he finds out.”

“Oh, uh.”

“Steve.  He’ll kill you.  With his fists.”

“No, um, he’s here.  He ah, he suggested it.”  He listened nervously to the silence on the other end of the line.  “Really.  I was right there in the car when--”

“No _kidding,”_ she snorted, then dropped her voice to a deep whisper. _“‘This_ is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call _...The Twilight Zone.’”_

“Shut up,” he snickered.  “I know.  But I wanted to ask--” he lowered the handset, staring out of the little booth at the ground.  He could hear quizzical noises from the earpiece, and took a deep breath, lifting it again.  “Yeah.  Sorry.  I just--could you--you know all those awful queer movies and lectures you made me listen to after--after Barb.”

“...yes.  It wasn’t--it wasn’t just because of Barb, that was stuff I needed to know, and they weren’t awful just because they weren’t funny--”

“I think it’s stuff that, um.  Uh--other people might need to know.”  He took another steadying breath.  “I mean, I’m going to have to tell people eventually, probably, Hopper might find out, the little shitstains are noticing--”

“Oh,” she was quiet for several too many seconds, and he covered the mouthpiece, giving himself a silent verbal ass-kicking in privacy, then bravely lifted it back to his face.

“Do--do you.  Is it--” he rubbed his face.  “Fuck.  Fuck.  Nancy--”

“It’s fine, I’ll do it, I just,” she paused again, and he scrabbled at his hair.  “I think--I guess I didn’t think about you changing your life this much for _Billy Hargrove,_ I mean, is it...is he _worth_ all this?”

He covered the mouthpiece again to giggle.  It sounded unhinged. _What would a damn good babysitter do,_ he took a slow breath, setting his shoulders, and telling himself it was idiotic to feel like a heroic firefighter, rescuing Will--but he did, a bit, _feel_ like he was.  “It’s not--I mean.  I--it’ll--I’ll still stare at Rob Lowe pictures after Billy, y’know, I might as--I might as well?” his voice betrayed him by revisiting its younger register a couple of times at the end, but he’d gotten it all out.  

“...just remembered you walking back in Jonathan’s house and grabbing a bat to fight a monster,” she laughed, but it sounded warm.  “Good, um, good for you.”

“I guess,” he sighed, feeling his lungs start to shudder.  “Fuck.  Hopper’s--I don’t know what Hopper’s gonna do. I don’t know what Mrs. _Byers_ is gonna do--”

“I’ll work on Eleven first,” she sounded determined.

“Eleven’s fine!”  His voice was still all over the place, which made everything sound kinda hilarious, and he stifled a snicker.  “Eleven’s here.  Eleven knows.”

“Why am I not invited?”  Her giggle sounded as nervously squeaky as his did, which was reassuring.  “I like pancakes too, y’know!”

“We’ll--next time.  Next--I hope there’s no next time,” he choked out a laugh, wiping his face.  

“...we’ll make _sure_ it’s okay, Steve,” she said, her voice still shaky, but it was her eyes-narrowed, steady-hand-on-the-trigger-finger voice, and he leaned his face in his hand for a long second, gaining determination in the memory of her unloading bullets into a monster.

 

When he walked back in the IHOP, Billy had turned sideways to stretch his legs over the whole seat, and Steve grabbed his boots, sliding underneath.  As ever, when anybody grabbed Billy but didn’t kiss him or shove him into a wall, he glared.  Steve patted his knee.  “Anyone order me anything?”

“I’ll order you waffles,” Eleven opened the menu again.  Steve shrugged.

“You could play Atari on a date,” Will suggested, and Billy let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling.  

“Ooo, Atari date,” Steve nodded, resisting the giggles that had crept up on him talking to Nancy.  “Strip Frogger.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Billy smacked his arm, as Will blinked.  Their server bounced on her toes at the edge of the table.  “Hey, Steve! Is this your brother?  And your sister?  Oh.  Uh, hey.  Billy.”  She edged closer to Eleven’s side of the table, as Billy grinned at her carnivorously.  

“Hey, Heather,” Steve nodded back.  “Closing shift?”

“They asked me to cover,” she leaned in to explain potato pancakes to Eleven--who did not look convinced--and carefully wrote down what sounded like a very complex order for waffles.   Heather grinned over again.  “Throw something at me if I fall asleep tomorrow morning, and I’ll do the same for you.”  He gave her a thumbs-up, and Will held up his hand.  

“Did you mean play Frogger with your _clothes off?”_

“He means do shit you don’t wanna do if you lose,” Billy punched Steve’s shoulder, widening his eyes warningly.  “Like lose your shirt.  Or.  Tell a secret?” He cocked his head at Steve, who grinned into his coffee.  

“Truth or Dare.”

Eleven was very curious about Truth or Dare, and Steve tuned out, breathing the steam off his coffee, until he heard the words ‘bicycle’ and ‘dam’.  

“Wait, what, ride your bike _where,”_ Steve waved into the conversation, his attention caught from watching Billy try not to doze off over his waffles.  It looked like everyone had let Eleven order, and Billy listening to Will and Eleven, and frowning down at the pile of berries, berry syrups, and whipped cream was making Steve’s heart feel like an expanding balloon of syrupy warmth.

“We didn’t _do_ it,” Will shook his head, wide-eyed.  “Lucas told Dustin he’s the _man_ of the house and he has to be responsible, he can’t _bike_ into the _dam.”_

“Better talk to your boy Henderson, _pumpkin.”_ Billy selected another strawberry, smile smug, and Steve bit back a snort of laughter, his eyes welling up with the strain of not falling sideways out of the booth in giggles.  

He held his breath for a few seconds, then spoke in a slightly higher voice than usual.  “I really should... _babe,”_ he agreed, and Will grinned at them with pink chipmunk cheeks.  

“Jesus, chew your food,” Billy snarled, and smacked Steve again.  “Tell them to fucking swallow, what kinda dad are you.”

“Your favourite kind, honey, the kind that _swallows,_ ” Steve sang back, and Billy’s mouth dropped open as his ears reddened.  

His jaw worked until Steve caught his eye, and then Billy couldn’t hold his snickers either anymore.  “So true,” he whispered back. _“...muffin.”_

Steve chewed thoughtfully.  “You’re really more kinda honey _-mustard,_ though,” he bumped his knee at Billy’s, and Billy huffed a laugh into his coffee.  

“Papa told me how a man and a woman can make a baby,” Eleven announced, and Heather, approaching their table, did a wide-eyed swivel-turn back to the kitchen.  

Steve felt the deep plunge from the wading pool of Babysitting into the oceans of Parenthood.  “Uh, um?” he wheezed, as his lungs apparently gave up for the night.  Will threw his arms over his head with a squeak, his ears unobstructed.

“Yeah, and?” Billy asked, setting his jaw.

“He told me what sex is.  A man and a woman.”

“Or a woman and a woman,” Billy’s smirk went sly, “or a man and a man.”

“How?” she frowned, holding a particularly large strawberry in both hands and biting it like a squirrel.

“I-I don’t--” Steve wondered, in a blur, what adult he could even go to?  He took a shaky breath. _Who you gonna call?_ reverberated in his head. _Nobody,_ he answered, staring into his coffee.

Billy glanced over, and his mouth quirked, which was honestly more worrying than anything else so far.  “Well, there’s more to _sex_ than _babies--”_

“Yeah, ‘cause Nancy’s not _pregnant,”_ Will scoffed.

“Did you and _Nancy_ have sex?” Eleven asked, wide-eyed, and Steve tried not to explode like a popped balloon with embarrassment, or combust with the influx of hot blood to his head in the middle of the (thankfully empty) restaurant. _“Why?”_

“Oh my god,” Steve groaned.

“I don’t want anybody else’s spit in my mouth,” Eleven informed Will, who wrinkled his nose, nodding.

Steve summoned a last reservoir of strength.  “Well don’t do _anything ever_ you don’t want to,” he mumbled, hands covering most of his face.  

“Some people don’t like waffles,” Billy leaned back to sip his coffee.  

“Nope,” her eyes narrowed.  

“Yup.  You don’t want to kiss anybody with spit, some people do,” he shrugged, grinning.  “I’d rather kiss than eat waffles.”  Steve side-eyed him through his fingers, putting his fervent wish for a monster invasion on hold.

“You have to _eat,”_ Eleven huffed.  

“Rather go _hands-on_ than eat waffles, too,” Billy frowned at the pile of sugary fruit and whipped cream, sipping his coffee.

“Hands on _what?”_ Eleven squinted in concentration, and Will and Steve both jumped.

Billy’s knee jostled Steve’s as he started bouncing his heel.  “Look, there are all different body parts, but I’ve got _some--_ it’s--it’s just different--”

“Just as good,” Steve interrupted, sliding a hand over his thigh.

“Have you _done_ that?” Will whispered, lifting his head and staring at Steve, who stared dumbly back.

“All over,” Billy grinned, and Steve groaned into his hands.  

“All the parts work fine,” he finally mumbled through his fingers, and Billy cracked up, choking on his coffee.  

“So you,” Will swallowed.  “...kiss, and...things?”

Billy snorted, but Steve cut him off.  “Of course I kiss him, we’re _dating,_ aren’t we.  It’s great, I’d kiss him all day.”  Steve felt Billy go still next to him.  He sighed, looking over to see Billy’s neck as red as his own, bent over his waffles and coffee. _...I’ll kiss it later,_ he decided, patting his hand over to slide his fingers between Billy’s.  

“So it’s just the same,” Will sounded half-offended, breathing out a huge gust of tension, and slumping back in the booth.

“...not everybody’s Steve,” Billy told his waffle, determinedly trying to cut it with his left hand as he squeezed Steve’s with his right.  “I went for it with him--” he jerked his head sideways, and Eleven interrupted.

“What’s that mean?”

“He--”  Steve squeezed Billy’s hand, pushing himself up in the wall of the booth to frown around for Heather, then dropped back to his seat.  “He laid one on me, that night most of the Ghostbusters were over.”  Eleven frowned at his privacy check, then firmed her mouth, and nodded, flicking her glance around the restaurant.

Will gasped, leaning back in, and Billy’s mouth quirked.  “You weren’t _boyfriends_ then?!”

“Yeah, don’t do it, I thought he was gonna cave my fucking head in,” Billy snorted.  “Shoulda made sure first, somehow--”

“Asked, maybe,” Steve snorted.  “I hear that works.”

“Yanked me out of the snow and just _held_ me there, and I k--I fucking kissed him--” he covered a grin, his face red.  “I thought ‘Fuck, he’s gonna shove me back, he’s just gonna--he’s gonna hit me with that bat, and hit me, and hit me--” he wiped his eyes, and Steve scooted closer, watching Eleven, who glanced toward the kitchen, and nodded.  

“You were _hugging_ him,” Will stared at Steve.

“Well,” Steve cleared his throat.  “I wasn’t...sleeping so well, and you guys woke me up, and he wasn’t talking about monsters, he was just warm and pissed off--”

“Oh, usually he says I smell good, glad to know my other attraction is I’m _alive,_ so I’m warmer than _snow._ Corpses are out, I guess.  Don’t try to fuck Harrington if you’re a _zombie,_ otherwise it’s a fucking go.”  Billy tried to pull his hand back to grab his coffee, and flushed when Steve held on.  He grabbed the mug with his left hand, hiding his face.

Steve leaned to bump his shoulder.  “Nah, man, I was so fucking tired.  I dunno if I’d have kissed you, but I was probably about to say something like a complete moron.  I’d have said you were pretty for a boy or something, you’d have _had_ to kiss me to shut me up, or shoved _me_ in the snow.”

Billy’s breath caught.  “You think?”

It was hard to put words together under Will and Eleven’s wide, unblinking eyes, but Steve did his best to ignore them.  “You’re awfully pretty, man. So yeah.”  

When Heather returned, warily edging toward their table--Steve could see her pale reflection in the window, head ducked to avoid children’s sex questions, as Eleven made an X with her forearms, flicking her eyes between them--Billy was still coughing coffee back out of his lungs, wiping his eyes.  

Heather refilled their mugs silently.  Her eyes darted around like Eleven might ask her about childbirth or orgasms at any moment.  She waved the coffee pot, and Steve registered the coffee had _all been caffeinated_ too late, sighing at the mug in betrayal--and draining it--but he accepted a refill.  As soon as Heather fled back to the kitchen, Billy squeezed his hand, swinging his legs off Steve’s lap and nudging him out of the booth.

“Gotta hit the john,” he stalked off. 

After a minute of giggling between Eleven and Will, Steve slid out of the booth.  His palms started sweating as he walked down the corridor to the bathrooms. He could hear the sink running in the men’s.  When the door opened, he pushed Billy back inside, slapping the slide lock closed as Billy flinched back.  

“No, come here,” Steve slid an arm around his waist to yank him close, hugging him before leaning back to lift him a few inches off the floor.  He slowly spun, humming the sugar-pouring song Billy kept getting stuck in his head.  Billy’s legs swung out as he laughed breathlessly into Steve’s neck.  

“What the fuck.”

“Jesus. _Honey.”_ Steve snickered, rubbing his face in Billy’s curls.  “Babe.”  Billy was tense against him, but he’d slid his arms around Steve’s neck, kicking his feet up so his boots barely missed hitting the sink before Steve sat him back on his feet. _“Frosted cupcake,”_ Steve leaned his head back to aim some kisses at Billy’s face.

“...I guess I did good?” he laughed against Steve’s mouth.  

“The _fucking best,”_ Steve groaned, kissing whatever was closest--in this case, Billy’s jaw.  Everything upwards of Billy’s neck seemed to be gaining heat, and Steve grinned against the smooth-shaven skin.  “I’m just a _babysitter,_ I don’t wanna have these conversations, you’re a fucking _hero_ having my back, _thank you,_ you asshole.  Muffin.  Sugar pie.”  

Billy hung on tightly as Steve swung him around again, laughing.  “Wanted to say any warm hole would do--”

Steve snorted, sitting him upright again, and pushing him up against the sink.  “Thank you for not saying that,” he whispered back, licking softly into Billy’s mouth so he grinned, and his eyes half-shut contentedly, like a cat’s.  He smelled like clean laundry and aftershave and tasted of berry syrup, and Steve’s dick was insistently telling him that jeans were restrictive, and Billy’s mouth was willing and soft.  _So willing,_ Steve groaned as Billy’s hands slid down the back of his jeans, pulling them even tighter over his crotch, and Billy laughed against his mouth.

“...not fucking you in the IHOP bathroom,” Steve whispered.  

“You sure?  You’re like rebar in there _,”_ Billy whispered back, yanking their pelvises together.  Steve’s brain went white for a long second at the feel of Billy’s dick pressing back against him, but he jerked away.  

“Not here, jesus.  Fuck.”

“So you think I’m _pretty,”_ Billy snorted, but he had his head ducked, glancing up through his lashes.  “You think a lot of people are pretty?”

“Yeah,” Steve said distractedly, leaning against the opposite wall, and thinking of the least sexy things he could. _Tommy and Carol.  Roadkill in hot weather.  Diaper changing._ That did it. _When Nancy’s little sister had diarrhea._ He grimaced faintly as his dick shriveled like he’d shoved snow down there.  

“‘Course you do.”  Billy’d turned away, washing his hands again, hunch-shouldered.

“Oh, hey, no,” Steve went up and pushed the mullet aside to kiss up Billy’s neck under the curls, like he’d wanted to earlier.  “Movie stars.  Nancy.  You.”

“Christ,” Billy whispered, grabbing the sink.  

“Come on out when you’re done,” Steve breathed across the soft skin he’d left damp, and Billy shuddered.  “Or I’ll eat your waffles.”

“Fuck you, christ,” Billy put his face in his hands as Steve slid out, checking the hallway.

 

Will and Eleven watched avidly as Steve walked back to the table, and he found his steps getting slower, imagining everything they might ask.  

“Were you kissing Billy,” Will hissed breathlessly, and Steve flailed.  “Yeah I _was,_ not that you really need to know.”

“You look like you were,” Eleven’s eyes narrowed.  “Your hair’s different, and your mouth is wet.”

Steve let his forehead thud against the table.  “Can I just eat my waffle.”

“You should, or it’ll get soggy,” Will giggled, and Steve resisted the strong urge to stick his tongue out and blow a raspberry.  He was making good headway on his pile of breakfast food when Billy arrived a while later, somewhat sweatier, and avoiding everyone’s eyes.  

“They’re guilting me for disrespecting my waffle,” Steve said, sliding out of the booth so Billy could slide in.  

“Sorry,” Billy whispered, positioning himself right at the other end with nearly two feet between them, instead of comfortably an inch from Steve.  Steve narrowed his eyes, but didn’t press in front of their eagle-eyed observers.  

 

Once they’d dropped Will and Eleven off--Mrs. Byers had met the car, already pelting questions, but Will drug her away--Steve squeezed Billy’s fingers again.  “You staying over?”

“Whatever you want,” Billy unhooked his seatbelt, scooting closer to lean against him.  “Wanna fuck?”

“Fuck yeah,” Steve stepped on the gas, and Billy laughed into his shoulder.  “Where’ve you been, babe?”

“...fucking car needs another jump,” Billy sighed.  “Have to get up in the middle of the night and start it, and he doesn’t like me making noise.”

“Shit.  Call me, next time.”

“Yeah?” 

“I _told_ you--” he bit his lips as Billy shifted away.  “I mean. Yeah. I’ll help.”  He pulled off to the side of the road.  “Billy.  Come here.”  

Billy leaned back in for a kiss, snickering.  “Are we having a fuck before you dump me back off?  He won’t like you jumping it tonight.”

“Nah, I’m kissing my boyfriend.”  Steve slid a hand under Billy’s jacket, smoothing along his side.  “Missed him.”

“...you’re hilarious,” Billy snorted, but he sounded breathless.  “Gonna climb in your lap and blow you if you don’t fucking drive.”

“That sounds difficult,” Steve grinned, but pulled away obligingly, checking the road before pulling back out.  

When they got back to the house, Steve locked up, dropped his school stuff upstairs, and peeled out of his jeans and shirt.  He flopped back against the bed, head on his folded arms, awaiting Billy’s pounce, then finally wandered downstairs again and into the front room to find him curled in the corner of the couch, head lolled back, drooling into a pillow.  Steve bit his lips on a wide grin, and grabbed a blanket.  “...just gonna start talking real quiet now,” he stepped closer to the couch, watching a frown flicker across Billy’s face.  “I think--I don’t know, but I _think,”_ he dropped the blanket on the other end, “--Honeybunches Hargrove, if you can fall asleep that fast in my house, you probably won’t lose your shit as long as I’m not sudden.” 

Billy hugged the pillow, turning his face into it, and Steve sat down on the other end of the couch.

“I’m gonna scoot closer,” he narrated.  “Get your boots off, okay?”  He patted his hand along the couch before sliding it up Billy’s boot to his laces.  “Don’t kick me.  Bet you kick like a fucking mule, dickhead.”  The laces were double-knotted, but he got them undone, and Billy only rolled over as he yanked the boots themselves off.  “Aww,” he leaned back against his end, throwing the blanket over them both.  “I feel like a wild animal likes me.” _...dunno that I’ve really seen him sleep,_ he tried to remember. _He looks cute, like a cat on its back swishing its tail like ‘yeah, human, put your hand where I can bite.’_

 

He woke to Billy giggling, another oddity.  

“Oh shit, I woke you up,” he leaned his face against the back of the couch, grinning, as Steve blinked out of his blanket cave with suspicious eyes.  “Go back to sleep.  Keep talking.”

“Whad I say,” Steve glowered.

“You’re not always trying to fight monsters,” Billy’s giggles returned, and Steve’s eyes narrowed.  

“Wha,” he slid a foot out of his blanket cocoon and poked Billy’s leg, then registered Billy’s lack of cocoon.  “...cold?”

“Kinda,” Billy leaned his head on his hand, grinning.  

“Go to bed,” Steve staggered to his feet, and grabbed him by the arm.

“You’re buck fuck naked under there,” Billy blinked, allowing himself to be drug towards the stairs.  

“You passed out while I took my pants off,” Steve snorted.  “Whacking one off in the IHOP bathroom musta tired you out, ladies’ man.”

“...sorry,” Billy muttered, “I know there were fucking kids, I’m sorry--” but Steve just drug him upstairs, and crawled in the bed, stretching to feel the sheets.

“Get in here.”  Billy did, and Steve pulled him close.  “Go the fuck to sleep.”

 

In the morning, they picked up Billy’s car, and Billy’s shoulders were up around his ears the whole while a man watched from the upstairs window.

 

Two days later, Steve woke to Max’s voice on the phone.  “Steve?”

“--Is this Max?” he dropped his awkwardly deep I-am-an-adult-please-don’t-ask-for-the-man-of-the-house voice that had always made Nancy snort her Pepsi.  

“You gotta come get Billy,” Max said in a rush.

“What?”

“His car won’t start.  Something’s wrong with it.  I can get a ride from Lucas’ mom, but the bus doesn’t come way out here, Steve.”  Her voice dropped to a whisper.  “If he has to get a ride from my mom or his dad, or if he misses more school, he’ll be in.  Trouble.”

“Shit, yeah, I can come get him,” Steve glanced at the clock.  “I gotta go, then, you can tell Lucas I’m picking both of you up.”

 _“Don’t bring Lucas,”_ she hissed, and he blinked at the phone.  

“No, I mean, you and Billy.  I’ll pick you and Billy up.  If I say we’re homework buddies, is his dad--”

“Shut up, Steve.”  She hung up.

When he pulled up at the Hargrove’s, Billy’s dad was standing in the open garage door with his arms crossed.  Billy was in the road, pacing around Max and surrounding them both in a cloud of smoke.  Max clambered right in, and Billy dropped next to Steve.  “Go go go,” he muttered, but his dad knocked on the window as Steve shifted into reverse, and Billy rolled it down.

“Thank you, son, for giving Billy a ride,” the man smiled at Steve, holding out a hand.  “Neil Hargrove.”  

Steve smiled back, keeping his hands on the steering wheel.  “I sure wouldn’t want to be late, sir, we better go.” he channeled his inner unfulfilled boy scout, and Max snorted.  

“You see that?” the man leaned in, and Billy pressed back in the seat, staring straight ahead.  “That is what _respect_ looks like.  You’re very lucky to know such a nice young man.”  He just leaned there, face inches from Billy’s, smiling.  “...did you say _thank you,_ son?”

“He sure did,” Steve held the brake on, tempted to just gun it and let the window shove Mr. Hargrove’s elbow so his fist clonked him in the head, but pretty certain it wouldn’t help.  

“Yes sir I did,” Billy repeated woodenly, and Steve suppressed the further urge to grab his hand and squeeze it.

“We really should get going,” Steve repeated.

“I bet this nice young man pulls his own _weight_ around the house,” Mr. Hargrove stepped back, releasing them, and Billy fumbled with another cigarette as Steve sped away.

“Hey, not in the car,” Steve caught his hands, squeezing them.  “What a fucking asshole.  What was that all about?”

Max stuck her head between the seats.  “He won’t pay to fix Billy’s car.”

“Trying to get a job,” Billy tucked the cigarette behind his ear, twining his fingers with Steve’s and squeezing hard.  “I can’t work if I can’t--leave the house--I can’t fucking get there.”

“And he can’t pay for car repairs if he can’t work,” Max called up, and Steve glanced in the rearview mirror to see her sneakers on the ceiling of the car.

“Get your feet off the fucking roof,” Billy hissed, glancing at Steve, but he shrugged, and Max’s feet stayed on the ceiling.

“To do what?” Steve could feel his fingers going numb in Billy's grip, but he reached over to use his left hand to turn down the defrost rather than let go.

“What I did before,” Billy shrugged, letting his head fall back, eyes closed.

“...he did deliveries,” Max put in.  “He got these crazy tips.”

“Shut your hole,” Billy’s cheeks were flushing, and Steve raised his eyebrows.

“Huh.  I was kinda torn between wanting to reverse the car, gun it, and just--thump-thump, no more Neil--”

Billy turned wide red-rimmed eyes on him, then let his head roll toward the window, but Steve could still see the edge of a grin.

 _“Or,_ like, I was so afraid he was gonna ask me how we knew each other,” Steve felt his cheeks heat as he turned onto the main road.  “‘Oh, basketball, sir, you know, he gives me tips on ball-handling’, I mean, what.”  Billy made a choked noise, loosening the death-grip on his fingers, and curling toward him.  “‘It’s hard going, but we have lots of stamina, sir, we can go all day.’  I could not think of a single thing to say that didn’t sound dirty.”

“Grosssss,” Max groaned from the back.  “Thought you guys met at a party.  Like fucking-- staring across a crowded room.”

Steve barked a laugh.  “That doesn’t sound _better._ Billy in his Fairy Godmother bare chest.”

“No,” she shuddered aloud.  “Eugh.  He sweats for that himself, it’s nasty.”

“I’m not fucking _\--Cinderella,_ stick to the basketball,” Billy cleared his throat.  His face didn’t change, but his neck and ears were turning red.  

“Yeah, okay,” Steve couldn’t stop grinning at the idea of Billy Hargrove in glass slippers at the ball.  “How about ‘we’ve been really working on two-player teamwork, really giving it lots of hands-on practice,’ or maybe ‘We play shirts and skins--we’re always both skins though, it gets confusing.’”

Max punched both their seats, but she was laughing--as was Billy, wiping his eyes.  

“Teaching you to handle a stick shift,” he grinned over. 

“‘He’s such a _good grappler.’”_ Steve said in reverent tones.

Billy smirked over.  “Handling some more horsepower.”

Steve snorted, coughing, and Max yelled “You two are _so disgusting,_ Nancy Wheeler isn’t a _horse.”_ After a short pause, she smacked Steve’s seat again.  “You’re gonna do _homework_ together.  On alllll the furniture, _all night long.”_

“Oh my god,” Steve wheezed, pulling in front of the middle school and dropping his head to the wheel.  Max climbed out and sauntered to where Lucas was waiting, and Dustin waved, running up, but Steve mouthed ‘later’.

“Hey,” he threw his arm around Billy’s seat, frowning behind them so he didn’t have to scrape any children off his rear bumper.  “Across a crowded room?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy stared ahead.  “That’s not what I said.”

“...hey.  We’ll figure your car out.  And I can give you rides.”  From the wary glance Billy gave him, he’d overshot ‘gratitude-inducing’ and dipped into ‘suspicious behavior’, and he sighed.  “You probably just need a new battery.”

“Faster it’s fixed, faster you won’t have to give a fuck.”  Billy smiled sweetly, and Steve pulled his arm back, setting his jaw, and drove.  “You wanting me to pay you back?”  Billy leaned the seat back, propping his boots on the dash.  “How much cock _is_ a battery worth, your majesty?”

“Go lick one,” Steve muttered, uncertain which he meant, and pulled up at the school.  Billy’d slammed the door and lost himself in the crowd before Steve wrangled his backpack from the backseat, and he groaned into the steering wheel.  Max had kicked his bag nearly under his seat, and once he wrassled it free, he surfaced to see Nancy peering through the windshield.  

At his groan, she cringed.  “Honeymoon over? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he climbed out.  “His dad’s a shitheel and he’s being a shitheel.”

“...sounds like that follows,” she fell in step with him.  “Wait, Billy, or his dad?”

“Both of them!  He keeps…” he touched his hair, making sure it hadn’t deflated over one ear.  “I dunno, he thinks I’m gonna, like, start punching him, or something.  He thinks I’ve got some--like an _evil plan.”_ He grinned over, and she bit her lips together.  

“I think,” she cocked her head, eyes narrowing as he held the door for her.  “How _much_ of a shitheel is his dad?  He actually...hits him?”

“It’s a lot of little stuff,” he grimaced.  “I mean, it’s hard to make it sound--like, he calls the cops on him all the time.  Winds him up when he’s drunk and tells him to drive into a tree.  I guess he scared him with a nail gun?”

Nancy’s shoulders straightened.  “A _nail gun.”_

“Yeah, like, shoved him against the wall and fired next to him.  Max said they both know he wouldn’t do it, but--”

“A _nail gun,”_ Nancy repeated, jaw firming.

“...yeah.  I told him he could just crash at my place, but he doesn’t believe that either.  I think he’s just...y’know, he’s real tired of being scared, so he’s pissed off all the time.”

“Who wouldn’t be,” she let her heels clack louder than usual, and he felt a burst of fondness for her fury on _Billy Hargrove’s_ behalf.  

“He’s still an asshole,” he shrugged, “I mean, that’s a given.”

“Well, yeah,” she was craning her neck, surveying the crowds, and he sighed, frowning around for Jonathan Byers.  “I don’t want to invite him for Christmas dinner, Steve, but we have to do _something.”_

He felt himself grinning like a complete goon.  “Yeah, I know--oh, Jonathan’s over there. Talking to Mr. Mundy.”  

She stood on her toes, squinting, then blinked, and laughed.  “...thanks, Steve.”

“Yeah,” he caught Jonathan’s look of alarm between the two of them, and blew him a kiss, waiting just long enough to see him look revolted before turning on his heel to head for class.

 

As ever, Billy lingered in the showers, his shoulder brushing Steve’s.  Steve resisted a grin—it wasn’t hard to spot the pattern, now that he knew what Billy’d been getting at, with his taunts, and his staring.  _Meeting at a party, locking glances across a crowded room,_ he felt himself grinning, and slapped lathered hands on his face to hide it. _What the hell did he say to Max?_

“The fuck are you smirking about,” Billy asked, most of his face in the spray.  

“Your pig-tail pul—whoa,” Steve tucked a wet curl behind Billy’s ear to see the bruised fingermarks.  “He got you good.  What’d he do, grab your face?  D’you wanna come over tonight?”

“Shut up,” Billy turned his back to the showerhead, facing Steve with his unmarked right cheek.  “It’s nothing.”

“…want me to get rid of Tommy until you cover that back up?” Steve wiped suds off his face, glancing over to meet Billy’s dark stare.

“What.”

“Until you put your…whatever back on, your foundation?  Whatever you’re covering it with.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy retreated back under the showerhead, nearly shoving his face against it.  

Steve shrugged, rinsing his hair, but caught Billy around the back of the neck when he came up for air--he froze--and pulled him in for a quick kiss.  “It’s fine, they’ve left,” he let his eyes follow the water tracing Billy’s pectorals.  “…you know you look just as good with brown eyelashes.”

Billy huffed a laugh and ducked his head, shoving Steve toward the door.  When he came out, toweling his head, he sat down and fixed his face, glancing over as he pulled out a bottle of foundation, then a tube of mascara.  

“You wanna come to my place tonight?” Steve sat next to him on the bench, facing him nearly nose-to-nose so he could watch the bruise vanish.  

“Have you seriously never seen this stuff,” Billy snorted, and Steve leaned in, bending to tuck Billy’s hair aside and press a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. 

“Nah, Nancy just uses mascara and lipstick--what,” he leaned back to see Billy’s face, but he’d turned away, gripping the bench with both hands.

“What the fuck,” Billy breathed.

“What?”

“You keep pulling this shit with me,” Billy elbowed him, before sighing, and lifting his mirror again.  “…how the fuck did you know, anyway?”

“Know what?”  Steve slid back to swing a leg over the bench, as Billy raised his eyebrows, pointing at his rapidly vanishing bruises.  “We’ve showered together, dude, I can see it wash off.  Besides, I look at your face a lot.”  Steve snorted, grinning. “I’m not _blind._ I can smell it, too, just because your nose is full of smoke—“

“Tommy’s just an idiot?” Billy raised his eyebrows.  

“Well, yeah,” Steve laid back on the bench, crossing his arms under his head, and making a face at the stains on the ceiling. _“And_ you don’t wash your face if he’s there.  Like it’d matter.  Just tell him all the rad dudes in Cali do it.  Tell him it’s Kiss, but like...the _awesome California_ version.”  

“What,” Billy tucked his supplies in his jacket pocket, scooting to fold his arms across Steve’s knees and smirk down.

“You could have him in lipstick in a minute, dude.”

Billy was laughing against his knee.  “Nobody wants that.”

“No,” Steve grinned back.  “But you have the power.”

 

Max was waiting out front of the school with Lucas, who lifted his chin at the sight of Billy, but stood his ground.  Billy leaned over and honked the horn, opened his mouth, glanced at Steve, and shut it again.  After another minute, when Max started kicking the ground, Billy slid out of the car, and Steve scrambled to follow.

Lucas took a step back, holding his hands up.  “Look, she can just do it at our house.”

“What’s going on?” Steve put in, since Billy was just lighting a cigarette and looming.

“He stuck me in _Home-Ec,”_ Max growled.  “I _wanted_ to take shop.  I can’t make all this shit at home, it’ll make a big mess, he _hates_ that.”

“She can just come to our house.”  Lucas didn’t take his eyes off Billy, who finally weighed in.

“He doesn’t like her at your house either.  Do it at Steve’s.  Or lie,” he raised his eyebrows, “--and say you’re at--” he frowned at Steve.  “Who, Eleven’s?”

“Why is _he_ fine?” Lucas jerked his head at Steve, eyes narrowed.  

“We could invite Eleven,” Steve grinned at her, and her face went sour.

“Stop trying to make us be friends just ‘cause we’re both _girls,”_ she stomped to the car, and Lucas took another step away from Billy.  

“...get Eleven to lie,” Billy glanced at Lucas, then focused on fixing his collar, “--when you want. I’ll cover.”

“What,” Lucas took another step back.

“You wanna see your little _girlfriend_ or _not,”_ Billy snarled at him, “Just fucking--have ‘Hopper’ call him, _lie,_ fucking idiot--”  Steve shoved him toward the car, and he stumbled, then stopped to straighten his jacket.  

“Sorry,” Steve mouthed at Lucas, turning back to the car.

“Steve isn’t gonna have all this shit, _Billy,”_ Max was muttering in the back.  “A sifter.  I’m real sure he’s got a _sifter,_ Billy.”

“Shut up,” Billy rubbed his face, staring out the window.

“What do you need,” Steve turned to lean between the seats.  “We can hit the store.”  He ignored Billy’s disbelieving snort, and waved Max’ recipe away.  “Just make a list, it’s fine, you’re feeding me.”

“I mean, _kinda,”_ Max grunted, kicking Billy’s seat, and he jerked his head towards her, glanced at Steve, and rolled the window down again, leaning out.

“You look like a dog, asshole,” Max kicked his seat again.  “It’s _cold,_ it’s fucking _January.”_

“I’ve got heat,” Steve cranked it.  At the Bradley’s Big Buy, he climbed out and walked around to stand on the passenger side. “Go ahead and fill up a basket,” he pointed, looking at Max, and she backed away slowly, eyes flicking between him and Billy, who’d let his head fall back against the seat again.  The muscles in his neck and jaw worked as he muttered under his breath.

“You okay, dude?”

Billy laughed, grinning at him.  “Fuck you, I didn’t do anything.”  He took a shaky breath, letting his head fall back again.  “I didn’t do anything, just--fuck you, Steve--” he jerked back as the door opened, and Steve dropped to a crouch.  “I was being _nice,_ if he’s too much of a fucking moron to see it--”

“Jesus, babe.”  He reached out slowly and put his hand on Billy’s knee, and Billy stilled at the contact.  “You’ve been edgy all day.  I just wanted to say I can shop with Max, if you need to like...run around the building, or something.  We’re almost to my house, you could meet us there, I could give you the ke--”

“Get out of my fucking face, Harrington,” Billy panted, hands clenched on the seat, and Steve scrambled back to let him edge by.  “I’m not--I don’t need a fucking _time-out,_ asshole.”  He set his shoulders, but kept his eyes on the ground, and Steve stuck his hands in his own pockets, suspecting Billy’d sink his teeth in whatever appendage got close enough, and then laugh through the bubbling blood.

Billy followed several feet behind as they shopped, occasionally grabbing something Max read off the list and tossing it to her, but he backed away every time Steve’s cart veered close, once into a display of tortilla chips with a loud enough crunch that he yelled “fuck”, and the ambient noise of the store died out for several seconds.

Steve leaned against the cart handle, rubbing his face and trying not to laugh, or kick the cart, or grab Billy’s shoulders and yell something unhelpful, like “CALM THE FUCK DOWN.”  Max’ attention flicked between them the whole time.

“Hot chocolate stuff,” Billy announced as they passed it.  “You’re low on marshmallows.”

“I am?” Steve grinned over.  “You been stealing my marshmallows?”

“I didn’t _take_ your fucking _marshmallows.”_ Billy threw a jar of marshmallow fluff at his head, and he caught it.

“You _count_ your marshmallows, or what, just buy some more,” Max grabbed a handful of bags, shoving it at him, and pushing the cart between he and Billy.

“...I wasn’t…” Steve ran his hand through his hair.  _I wasn’t angry,_ he thought, slapping the bags into the cart, and clenching his jaw as both the Hargroves’ shoulders hunched.   “Fine, jesus.  What are we doing for dinner?”  Max frowned up to see him glancing back at Billy, and he grimaced at the canned vegetables, trying not to let them see him wanting to yell _I’m not your dad_.  “Right.  Okay, we could get burgers.  There’s Italian, there’s Mexican, anything sound good?  We can go to a restaurant, sit down.”  To his bewilderment, Max visibly relaxed, but Billy turned and stalked away.

“I like Mexican,” Max answered, after a moment’s thought.

“Mexican it is,” Steve sighed.  

They both lingered, watchful and creepy, as he checked out, but at least grabbed a couple of bags.  Out at the car, he popped the trunk, calling “Are you guys hungry yet?  We could go now, and take some home, or go later--” and looked up at the sound of the door closing to see Billy holding out a bag, eyeing the inside of the trunk.  

“I’m just kinda _worried,”_ Steve whispered to him.  “You’re good, you’re fine, you’re just acting like--”

“Like what,” he passed over the groceries, stepping back.  

“...nothing.” He slammed the trunk, sighing.  “It’d be easier if you were a girl, I could just hug you right here--”

“Yeah, that’s gonna get old real fucking fast, isn’t it,” Billy stalked back to slide into the car.

 

Dinner was excruciating.  Billy waited for Max to slide in the booth first--she eyeballed him, but did it--and then Billy crooked a grin and slid in to face Steve.   They both studied the menu like they were disarming mines, while Steve played with the straw in his coke, trying not to seem impatient.  “Order the whole restaurant, I don’t care,” he waved to the server for more salsa.  When he escaped to the bathroom to check his hair, and muffle a scream in his sleeves, he returned to find them whispering.  

“So,” Max shoved some chips in her face, as Billy flicked a knotted cherry stem out of his mouth with his tongue.  She punched his shoulder. “Eugh.  So.  Billy _accidentally_ hit the door.”

Billy slammed his hand flat on the table.  “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, eyes flicking to Steve.  

“You were _right there,_ though,” she bared her teeth in a smile.

“I was right there, opening the door, but the _phone_ kept ringing,” he raised his eyebrows, wishing he could reach across to Billy, and--hold him still somehow, before he exploded.

“Shut the fuck up, Max.”  Billy didn’t shout it, but it was loud enough that the people leaving a tip for their late lunch across the aisle paused.  “We’re fucking done.”

“I just wanna know where Steve was,” she smiled at the server returning with a massive pile of nachos Steve had mostly intended to hide behind.  Max grabbed her napkin, turning the hot plate to get at the shredded beef.  

“Did anybody come up with a drink order...that I can actually fill?” the server--her nametag read Oceane, which was handy, as Steve remembered only her face--smiled at Billy, who smirked back, charm at full output, opening his mouth. _“Virgin_ margarita?” she supplied, grinning, and Steve covered a snort, scooping up most of the guacamole.  

“Hey...Steve,” she tucked her hair behind her ear, lowering her eyes, and Billy’s elbow hit his water glass.  He caught it, but some spilled, and Max handed him her napkin.  

“Maybe you don’t need any anything,” Oceane snorted, and Billy grinned at her, but his eyes kept flicking to Steve, and they’d gone half-lidded, like their first kiss in the snow, or the time at the Byers’ when he beat Steve unconscious.  

Max elbowed him, shoving the nachos over.  _“Billy.”_

“I’m not bringing you alcohol,” Oceane smiled.  

Steve stifled a snort.  “Uh, could I get another coke, though?”

“Sure.  Lemme know when you’re having another party, Steve.” 

Once she left, Billy climbed out of the booth, walked over to the table across the aisle where the people had left, and dumped an almost-full water glass on the floor under the table.  He filled it with the dregs of their two beers and three margaritas, dropped back in their booth, and drank it down staring Steve dead in the eye. 

“Jesus, you’re disgusting,” Max shuddered, and Billy slammed back out of the booth, tossing the empty glass back under the other table, and sauntered off backwards, smiling.

 “Can’t take me anywhere, Steve, shoulda left me in the fucking car like a dog.”  He barked as he walked away, shouting back, “Panting against the window!”  Thankfully, at barely five o’clock, the only judgemental face looking back at Steve’s was Oceane’s.  

Billy was gone for a good while, and they finished the nachos.  “So this accident,” Max looked up, pushing the plate away.  

Steve groaned, accepting another plate of cheese he’d apparently ordered. _At least I’ve got enchiladas,_ he sighed.

She picked up a fork and bit it.  “He said he made a huge fucking mess at your house.  Bottles.  Woke you up. You didn’t--” she slapped her own head, over her right ear, “--make him stop?”

“Look, he was drunk, he fell.  I can’t--I don’t have _video.”_

“Just.  If you tell him it’s an accident, he’ll say it’s an accident.  So.”  She leaned over and cut a big bite off his enchilada.   

“Wait, what does that mean,” Steve sat his fork down, and rubbed his face.  _“Tell him_ it’s an accident?”

She smacked her hand on the table, shouting “That’s what he _does,”_ then covered her mouth, glancing around. _“Billy_ doesn’t fucking know, he’s drunk off his ass.  Neil always…” she trailed off, pulling his plate closer.

“Didn’t you two _order_ anything?” he sighed.  “Look, you don’t have to tell me this shit.  He can come over. _You_ can come over.  If he’s too drunk to drive, just call me.”

She leaned her face against her fist, swallowing.  “Fuck you, Steve,” she said hoarsely.  “I don’t need _help.”_

Steve raised his eyebrows, cutting a bit from his end of the enchiladas.  “Billy might.”

“Yeah, he fucking does, you think I _wanna_ have this talk?”  She jerked her hand between them.  “Just don’t--don’t _fuck_ with him.”  Her mouth twitched, as she rubbed her eyes, then flailed again.  “I mean, fuck him, I _guess,_ if you really wanna touch _Billy.”_ To Steve’s tired amusement, she appeared to be suppressing a gag, “--but don’t...fuck him up...worse, don’t tell him he’s _earned_ it, don’t--don’t do that shit.”

Steve stared at her for a long second, then slid out of the booth.  “I’m gonna make sure he’s okay.”

“You have fun with that,” she pulled his plate over to keep eating, and he rolled his eyes.  

 

The bathroom door was locked, but he could hear pacing.  “Hey,” he stage-whispered, knocking quietly.  

“Shitfuck,” came Billy’s voice.  “Yeah, I’m coming, fuck--”

“Just let me in,” Steve grimaced. _Great.  He’ll think he I’m here to slam his face in the mirror.  Or get a blow job.  Or both.  And--_ here he addressed his penis directly-- _shut the fuck up, it’s not a hot idea.  Shut up._

The door unlatched, and Steve slid in, locking it again.  Billy was sitting against the sink counter, holding a liquor bottle.  “I stole it,” he snorted, smiling, and cracking his neck.  

“If you were gonna steal a bottle of--” Steve cocked his head, “--Captain Morgan, what the hell was that with the--”

“I didn’t fucking know this’d be sitting out,” Billy looked him over, slowly, taking another swig.  He screwed the cap back on, sliding the bottle into the sink, and grinned at Steve.  “You here to show me how to behave in public?  Gonna introduce me to your woman out there?  Garbage, meet a real human girl.”

“Just making sure you’re okay,” Steve eyed Billy’s hands, casually flexing at his sides, and remembered them connecting with his face.  “Did you order any food?  Nothing’s showed up.”

“Thought maybe you came in here to feed me something else,” Billy didn’t step closer, but he slid his thumb over the fly of his pants.

“...maybe later.”  Steve tried not to grimace, uncertain how to play...whatever this game was.  “Want to just come out when you’re ready?  I could order whatever you want.”

Billy laughed.  “Sorry, watching you flirt wasn’t quite _enough_ for me.  Maybe I’ll just finish the bottle.”

“I mean,” Steve leaned to see into the sink, “--that stuff’s nasty.  You _sure_ that’s what you want in your mouth.”

“You said I can’t have what I _want,”_ Billy picked up the bottle again, hefting it in his hand, and rolled his shoulders.  “Might as well down it, right?  You can take me home in the trunk,” he stepped closer, unblinking.  “Just shove me in there, lemme wake up screaming again.  That was _fun,_ wasn’t it.  Fun for the _whole family.”_

“Dude,” Steve leaned back against the door, crossing his arms.  “That wasn’t me.  I’d have let you out at the Byers’ when I found you, but you wanted to _murder_ everyone.  You were screaming shit about running Max over.”

“Oh, yeah, of course I _would’ve,”_ Billy bared his teeth.  “Fuck off and die, you fucking cunt.”  Steve opened his mouth, and Billy threw the bottle at the door.  “I’m a _fucking murderer,_ right, get the _fuck_ out!”  

The bottle hadn’t broken, and Steve grabbed it, frowning down.  He imagined leaving Billy for some poor restaurant employee to find.  They’d probably call Hopper.  “...you gonna make me tell Will Byers my boyfriend got arrested for screaming threats at the Mexican place?”

“Fuck,” Billy took a step back, until his back thudded against the corner.  “You’re calling the police.  Of fucking course.  Tell Hopper I got _loud._  Tell him it was _self-defense,_ I threw the bottle first, christ--I didn’t even--” he swallowed.  “I’ll shut up.  I’ll shut up, I’ll behave, I’m good, I’ll be good--Harrington--”

Steve sat the bottle down.  “Yeah, you’re good.  You’re okay.  Hargrove.”  He took a few steps towards Billy, who jerked back, sniffling, and punched the wall.    

“Billy, _stop._ I didn’t call anybody. _Hargrove._ I didn’t call.  But they’re _gonna,_ if you keep screaming about murder in here.  Don’t!  Don’t punch the wall--”

Billy gave a pained grunt and punched the wall again.

 _“Jesus,”_ Steve put a hand around Billy’s elbow, and when that didn’t get a reaction, slid his arms around Billy’s chest and arms, pulling him back against himself.  “Did you break your hand?” His face tickled as Billy shook his head, and leaned against him, breathing shakily.

“Didn’t even do anything,” he whispered.  “I didn’t--didn’t fucking--”

“Yeah, great, you just punched a fucking wall and your hand’s broken.  Thanks for not hitting me, I guess,” Steve set his jaw, heartily wishing he was eating enchiladas, instead of talking Billy down from being a _\--a what,_ he thought, sighing into the soft curls. _A fucking menace, fucking Billy the Menace._ “Jesus, I think you cracked the tile.”  He let go with his right hand to grab Billy’s forearm and hold it up.  “...your hand’s swelling up, man.”

“Just a fucking tile,” Billy’s breaths were coming faster, and Steve wanted to just...yell for an adult, mostly.  

“You have no idea what the fuck you’re gonna do, do you.  What helps.”

“What,” Billy tried to jerk away, and his knees bent, so Steve scrambled to keep hold, and shuffled him onto the toilet as he tried to curl away.  “I didn’t--Harrington.  It’s just a fucking tile, I didn’t--look, fuck, I took the fucking bottle, but I didn’t even--”

“Shut up,” Steve grabbed his face, and Billy locked eyes with him.  Billy’s were spilling over.  “God.  Jesus.  Look at that waterproof mascara, just doin’ its job.  Fuck.  Billy,” Billy nodded, his pulse pounding against Steve’s hands. Steve swallowed. _He looks like his dad has him, the fucking asshole._ “Would it help if I kissed--” he didn’t have time to finish the thought, as Billy’s fingers clenched in his shirt and pulled him into a hard kiss that tasted like saltwater and Captain Morgan.  “You taste like a pumpkin pie that’s like a year old,” Steve whispered against Billy’s mouth, tasting him again, running his thumbs up Billy’s cheeks to soothe him.  “Fucking...rotten pie,” he licked softly into Billy’s mouth, feeling the pulse against his fingers start to slow.  

“‘Cause I’m rotten,” Billy leaned into his hands.  “Be grateful it washed the beer-garita away,” he snorted, letting Steve lift his chin, and kiss experimentally across his wet eyelashes.  “...the fuck are you doing,” he laughed, sniffling.

“No idea,” Steve pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his hands, and dabbed under Billy’s eyes.  “Is it working?”

“Y-yeah,” Billy’s voice cracked.  “Yeah, it’s working.”  

“You good?”

Billy nodded, ducking his head.  “Yeah.”

 

Steve kept a hand clenched in the arm of Billy’s jacket as they walked back out, dodging the low-hanging paper-mache parrots.  Max was rubbing her stomach absently, and crunching more chips, the only thing left on the table. “...what the hell, did you guys _fight?”_

“Fought the wall,” Billy dropped heavily next to her, waggling his fingers.  “Think it’s just bruised.”

Steve waved to Oceane--Billy rolled his eyes--and she wandered over to accept another two orders, and two hot chocolates.  Steve looked up after asking about available whipped cream (it was) to see Billy’s dark-eyed frown.  

“...what.”

“You actually _like_ hot chocolate, or is it…”

“Dustin says I’m a chocolate vampire,” Steve rolled his eyes.  “I vant to suck a straw.  Look, you want me wandering around with a nailbat at four am, I’ll get coffee instead.”

 _“That’s_ a thing you fucking do?”  Max threw her hands in the air, slumping sideways.  Her voice continued from under the table.  “You’re _perfect,_ then, I thought you _weren’t a psycho._ Oh my god.  Why.  I hate both of you so fucking much. _So much.”_

“Have fun baking without me, then,” Billy raised his eyebrows, as Oceane sat out more plates.  

“You _bake?”_ Steve dug in to his cheesy chilies, but kicked his feet up to clamp them around Billy’s calves.  “Mmnum.  Might have to _seduce_ you,” he waggled his eyebrows, once Oceane had wandered off.

“You’re bad at footsie,” Billy grunted back, mid-bite, and Max groaned, immediately checking under the table, then sighing in relief.

When the hot chocolate arrived, Max drank both of them, and Billy narrowed his eyes at her, then at Steve.  Steve just kept shoveling it in, until Billy’s warm _foot_ pressed against his _fly,_ and he nearly coughed up an entire coke.

 

When they got to Steve’s, the phone was ringing as he unlocked the door, and he groaned, but Max shoved him towards it.  “Answer,” she growled at him. “Last time you weren’t answering Dustin kept _whining.”_

Billy unloaded groceries from the garage, as Steve allowed himself to be prodded towards the phone.  “Harrington residence,” he told it.

“Is this the polite young man who picked up my son Billy this morning?”

Steve sat on the floor.  “Yes I am,” he bit his lips, listening to Max and Billy bicker in whispers in the kitchen.  “Uh, just a moment, uh. I have a...cat.”  He pressed his hand tightly over the mouthpiece, scrambled to his feet, disentangled his feet from the cord, and leaned into the kitchen doorway.  “Does your asshole dad know you’re here?”

“What?” Max paused, still pointing a wooden spoon at Billy.  They both frowned over.

“He’s _on the phone,_ do I--do I just pretend you’re not here, or--?"

“Don’t tell him we’re here,” Billy glanced at Max.  “Call him and ask to stay at Eleven’s.”

“He’ll ask to talk to Hopper,” she raised her eyebrows.

The voice against Steve’s hand was getting buzzy in the small speaker.  “Sorry, I’m back.  Yeah.”

“I was hoping to speak to your father.”

“He’s out,” Steve rolled his eyes, wandering back towards the doorway, and realized they were both following, so he dropped into a chair.  “Did you need something?”

“You seem like a responsible boy,” Neil Hargrove began, and Steve made a face.

“I try to be,” he frowned very seriously, caught Max’s sneer, and couldn’t suppress a grin as he clasped a hand to his heart.  “After all, sir, what happens in highschool affects the whole rest of your life.”  

“Fucking hell,” Billy started assembling ingredients.  He dropped the sugar, catching it against the counter with his hip, then knocked the measuring cup into the sink with a loud series of thuds.  When he pulled the eggs out, he shoved them at Max, cranked the water on, and stuck his head under the faucet. 

“That’s a very good outlook, son,” Neil sighed.  “I’m guessing you don’t know Billy very well.”  

 _Oh no,_ Steve thought, _mustn’t say anything about ball-handling.  Or stick shifts._ “He gave me some tips to help my free throws,” he felt himself grimacing.  “I don’t mind giving him a lift.”

“Son,” Neil paused.  “You sound like you’re going places.  You’re a fine boy, and I’d just--” Neil sighed--for effect, Steve suspected.  “I’d hate to see--it’s difficult, being a father.”

“Is it?”  Steve’s eyebrows couldn’t raise any higher, he was pretty sure, but Max and Billy both kept glancing over, so he slowly spiraled his finger around his ear.  Billy snorted.  

“It’s difficult being a father, and knowing you’ve failed.”  Steve waited, fairly certain hanging up would just cause more problems.  “Son, my Billy says he’s changed.  He’s why we moved, and of course I--as a father--of course I strain to see some _good_ in that boy, but I have to be honest with you.  I don’t think he’s got it in him.  His mother couldn’t see it, and I’m beginning to think she was right.  Nobody knows a child like its mother.”

Steve wanted to groan, but he set his jaw.  “Are you saying he...did something?”

Billy dropped the bowl he was holding against the counter, making a loud clatter.  “S’not broken,” he whispered over.  “Nothing’s broken, I’m sor--”

“It’s really not, it’s fine--” Max echoed, two sibilant voices echoing out of his kitchen, and Steve turned away, clearing his throat loudly.

“Sorry, cat got on the counter.” 

“Sounds like you need an animal that takes _discipline._ I prefer dogs,” Neil grunted.  “Well, as I say, he says he can change.  But I’d hate to see a bright young man like yourself in a prison cell in ten years because you believed my Billy had the right of things.  He’s always been slow, my boy Billy, and that’s--that’s just not something a parent can do much about.  Where I _do_ feel I failed, son, is he’s disrespectful, and he’s dishonest--” he sighed again.  Steve got up and went in the other room, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  

“--It’s downright cruel on a father, seeing fresh-faced kids every day, full of God’s goodness, and knowing yours just...came out wrong, somehow.  At first you think maybe he just isn’t paying attention. Then you think, maybe he’s too dumb to understand.  I finally realized he was just rotten inside, black with it, clear through, and I still just can’t help trying to teach my boy to be better.  So--I don’t want to bring you down, son, but I’m gonna have to tell you to stay well clear of Billy.  It’s for your own good.”

Steve took the phone away from his ear for a second, staring at it, then cleared his throat.  “I’ll think about what you’ve said, Mr. Hargrove.  I better go now, I have to--” he looked up to see Billy watching him, arms crossed.  “--uh, I have to, cook a ham.  Dinner.  Night!” he hung up.

“Long conversation,” Billy’s voice was hoarse.  “Harrington--”

“Shit,” came Max’s voice muttering in the kitchen, and Billy turned on his heel and went back in there.

“Shit,” Steve echoed.  “What the hell.  What the fucking…” he pushed himself to his feet, at least twice as tired as he’d been before, and sat down in the kitchen again.  “What do we say about Max?  Should I just take you back tonight and you can say you were at a friend’s and forgot to call?”

“Okay,” she bit her lips together, frowning between he and Billy again.  Billy was kneading the dough--like it was his dad’s face, smacking it on the counter, then squeezing it between his knuckles.  Steve’s fingers itched to join in, maybe wallop it a few times with a rolling pin for good measure, but Billy glanced up at Max.  

“Who’s getting this extra credit here, me or you?”

“Meeee,” Max sighed, stomping over, and accepted the rest of the dough.  Once Billy’d gotten her slamming it around in the correct way, they put it on pans.  

“Gotta let it rise,” Billy muttered, soaping his arms up to the elbows to get the specks of dough off.  

“I like making bread,” Max lifted a corner of the damp dishtowel to peer at it.  “It’s violent.”

“Be a couple hours,” Billy told the sink.  

“Wanna watch a movie?” Steve grabbed a towel, wrapping Billy’s forearms and scrubbing them dry.  “Max, you wanna pick a movie, and I’ll make hot chocolate?”  She grinned like a cartoon shark and ran out to the front room, and Billy groaned.  

“Not Godfather!” he shouted after her, and she laughed like a supervillain.  

“...not sure whether I have The Godfather,” Steve cocked his head.  

“Rejected,” Max stuck her head back in.  “You’re rejected.  But I want more hot chocolate.  Neil had a date with my mom and made this huge deal about it being family, he and _Billy_ being _family_ now, and he told me to pick the movie, and Mom _knew_ what I’d pick--”

“Sure wasn’t Cinderella,” Billy snorted.  

“Neil told me to pick my _real_ favorite, that he’s my _daddy_ now, and I should take being his daughter _seriously,_ and be _respectful,_ and then _Mom_ says ‘She loves the part with the horse head in the bed and all the blood everywhere’ and Neil shut the hell up for _almost five minutes.”_

Billy snorted, shaking his head.  His hands were trembling.

“Yeah, pick a movie,” Steve called, and her footsteps clomped away again.  He laced his fingers with Billy’s cold wet ones, tugging him close, and Billy made a soft noise in his throat as he leaned in to the kiss.   

“What’d he say,” Billy whispered as soon as Steve pulled back.  “You fucking know I’m garbage already.”

“Jesus, shut up,” Steve leaned in for another kiss, bracing himself for the awful Captain Morgan flavor, but Billy turned his face away.  “You’re a person, Hargrove, c’mon, you sound like I’m sucking face with coffee grounds and banana peels.”

“What’d he say,” Billy’s fingers dug into Steve’s biceps, but when Steve didn’t start unloading Neil Hargrove’s stream of insults, Billy deflated, leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder.  “...lemme blow you after Max leaves, make up for earlier,” he whispered against Steve’s neck. _“Harrington._ Let me, c’mon.”

Steve’s throat was suddenly dry.  “Like I’m gonna say no,” he muttered back, squirming in his jeans against Billy’s warm weight.  “We’re supposed to be making hot chocolate,” he slid his hand up to cup the back of Billy’s head, twining his fingers in sweaty curls.  “Doesn’t matter what he said.  Hey,” he ran his thumb down Billy’s jaw.  “I’m not gonna listen to him.”

“Just let me fucking apologize,” Billy kissed back hard, pushing him against the cupboard.  “Lemme suck your dick until you don’t care what I’m like.”

“Unlikely to happen,” Steve snorted, pulling away to fill a pan with water, and Billy stood very still.  

“No apologies, just get it right the first fucking time, and don’t keep _fucking up,”_ he whispered, laughing, and Steve glanced over.  

“Good plan?” 

Billy sat down in a chair, his breaths coming faster, and rubbed his face.   Steve dropped his wooden spoon and came to squeeze his shoulder.  “Babe.  Honeybunch.  Gummy bear.  What--”

“Anything you fucking want,” Billy laughed, not looking quite at him.  “Just--just tell me the--the plan.  I know I can’t--a fucking apology doesn’t let me just--I can’t just--”

“Billy,” Steve pulled the other chair over.  

Billy flinched at Max’s yelled “Get out here!  I picked _Alien.”_

“Oh fuck no,” Billy called over his shoulder.  “Steve’ll go batshit.”  The water on the stove boiled, and Steve jumped to stir it.  Billy wandered into the front room, dropping into what Steve now thought of as his corner of the couch.  

“Yeah, uh, Steve _asked me to pick,”_ she crawled over to the laser disc player, and Steve came out with mugs for Billy and Max and flopped facing the back of the couch, curling his face into Billy’s t-shirt.  

“S’fine, I’ll just listen to it,” Steve mumbled into Billy’s stomach, and Max whipped around to stare at them.

“Steve, I swear to god, if you’re giving him a blow job right here and now I’m calling the _fucking police,”_ she hissed, and Billy cackled, sliding his fingers into Steve’s hair.

“Not,” Steve rolled to look at her.  “I can bite his stomach if you want, though.  You know he’s ticklish?”

“Noooo,” her grin widened, and Billy shook his head.  

“Sure, you try that, if you don’t need all ten fingers.”  His fingers tightened in Steve’s hair, and Steve winced, raising a hand to disentangle them.  “Maybe you’ll get to meet Sleepy Steve.”

“What?” Max wrinkled her nose, and Steve raised an eyebrow.  

Billy shrugged, allowing his fingers to be drawn free of the tangle they were in, but sliding them back more gently.

“Sleepy Steve?” he asked.

“The one that thinks I’m worth saving from monsters,” Billy snorted.  “Sleepy Steve’s too dumb to notice.”

“Notice what,” Steve pressed, but then Max turned the lights off, the room lit up blue, and Steve hid his face in Billy’s stomach.

When he awoke, Billy was stroking his hair and the edge of his ear, staring out the windows, his eyes reflecting blue.  Max was cheering--loudly--for Ripley, and Steve didn’t move, watching Billy’s red-rimmed eyes, and his jaw working, and feeling his calloused fingers.  When it was over, Max trotted in to the kitchen and started banging around, and Billy just slumped, letting his head loll back.  “What’re you gonna do to me, Steve Harrington,” he asked under his breath, and Steve kissed his stomach, prompting a yelp.  

“Nothing?” he sat up.  “I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t make me do.”

Billy swallowed, nodding, and squirmed away to walk back in the kitchen.  

Steve leaned his head in the kitchen.  “Are we watching something else?”

“Why does bread take so damn long,” Max growled.

“...you picked the recipe,” Billy said, after a pause where he just watched Steve coming into the kitchen, and stepped back into the counter.  

“Stay as late as you like,” Steve shrugged, heartily wishing Neil Hargrove would get sucked up in a tornado, instead of spreading his poison around when he wasn’t even there.

 

Billy waited until Max was carefully arranging dough to drop the metal bowl behind her, and she swore, swinging around with a punch, but he blocked her with the bag of flour, smirking--until the bag blew out.   They both ended up covered in white powder, and probably white faced underneath, watching Steve.  He dropped into a chair, raising his eyebrows. "You two look like really happy cokeheads.  I'm not coming over there."  

"We've got the good drugs," Billy snorted.  His hands were shaking again, and Steve tried to look cheerful and serene.

"That was like a third of the flour, asshole," Max sighed, leaning over the sink to try and brush it off her hair.

"Yeah, how's Steve gonna know you're not a fuckup if you can't make perfect bread," Billy looked between Steve and the sink, cheeks reddening, and ran his fingers through his hair, distractedly dumping most of the flour down his shirt.  "Fucking hell," he muttered, ducking his head, “I’m gonna need a shampoo.”  Max snorted. 

"I just want to _pass my class,"_ she told the measuring cup.  Steve stayed out of the way, stirring more hot chocolate mix, and heard scrabbling.  He looked over his shoulder to see Billy swig from the bottle of tequila, and slide it back behind the microwave, before inspecting his hands with a sigh. 

When Billy pulled the second pan out of the oven, Max was standing directly behind him, and he stumbled, swinging it away to avoid her--swiping Steve’s hand with the 400 degree metal.  Steve swore, jerking back, and stalked to the sink.  “Sorry I’m--I’m not drunk,” Billy whispered, feeling Max pull the pan from his hands.  “Fuck, I burned you, fuck.  I was steadying myself, I’m not drunk, Harrington.  Shit.  I know you won’t--” he laughed.  “Doesn’t fucking matter, does it.  Doesn’t matter.”  Billy slid his lighter out of his pocket, and grabbed the cigarette tucked behind his ear, and Steve waved.  "Oi."  

"I dunno, King Steve," Billy lit up, cupping his hands around the cigarette like there was a wind through the kitchen.  He had to flick the lighter so many times Steve thought it might be out of fluid.  "Your Majesty.  You gonna teach me to _listen right?_ It never works."  He sauntered closer, shoved Steve aside, and stood behind Max, who was prodding the twice-risen dough.  “What’re you waiting for?  In the fucking bathroom stall you said ‘later’, Harrington, it’s later _now._ What fucking lesson you gonna pound into me?  Put up or fucking shut up.”

“What the fuck,” Steve frowned over, holding his hand under the cold water.

“Not letting me apologize, I know what that means, I’m not that fucking dumb,” Billy smirked.  “Just do it.  Just _do it,_ Harrington.”  He grinned, walking into Steve so his weight pushed him back against the sink.  “Whacha gonna do, Harrington?  What--are you gonna--do,” he blew cigarette smoke in Steve’s face, and Steve rolled his eyes, turning away.  Billy shoved his shoulder, then again.  “Do it, Harrington.  Go on.” 

“Fuck is wrong with you,” Steve muttered, and Billy took a shaky breath.

Max glanced back, then at the dough, and Billy caught Steve’s eye.  “What the fuck are you gonna do,” he whispered, lowering his cigarette near the freckled skin between her hair and collar.  Steve grabbed his wrist, yanking him away and slamming him against the oven, as Billy laughed in his face.  

"What the fuck!" Max yelled, dragging at Steve's arm, but he was busy yanking the cigarette from Billy’s hand and tossing it in the sink, the adrenaline carrying him through shoving Billy bodily through the door to the garage and locking it behind him.

"...what happened," Max swallowed.

“Sorry,” Steve leaned back against the door, rubbing his face.  His heart was pounding with the cold clear energy he got fighting monsters, in the snow, and he felt himself giggling.  

“What’d you do, why’s he so quiet in there,” her voice rose.  “Steve, what the fuck’s going on.”

“I don’t--” he swallowed.  “Shit, it’s not heated in there.”  He yanked the door open on Billy squinting into the rectangle of light, leaning against his car, and felt along the wall to turn on the garage light.  He peeled his sweatshirt off, tossing it at Billy Hargrove’s head.  It hit him in the face, since he made no effort to catch it, and rolled to the floor.  “Okay, we’re done,” Steve counted on his fingers, still feeling like he was peering at them from more than an arm-length away.  His vision was slowly closing in on Billy, the outer edges going dark.  “Two, you--you’re a _person,_ so you can still stay here so your dad doesn’t fucking...beat you to death, because I guess that’s bad.”  He counted off a third finger.  “But. I’m going to close an account at the bank.  It’ll take some paperwork, but I’ll get it rolling.  Take the money, and then nobody in this fucking town has to see you ever again for the rest of our happier fucking lives.”  

As he shut the door and locked it, Billy was sliding down the side of the car to sit on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote some of this REALLY FAST because I didn't realize the next season was imminent, so...sorry? Hopefully it has some bits that'll make you cackle!
> 
> ETA: SORRY, SEVEN CHAPTERS, NOT FIVE, MORE COMING


	6. Before mapping borders with the princess, the prince must rescue her from her tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve just wants Billy _entirely safe,_ so he can yell at him properly. 
> 
> The outline hasn't changed, but all the scenes keep being longer than I anticipate, so...nine chapters? Ten? I DO NOT KNOW. It'll depend on how long-winded I am.

Steve stumbled back from the door to the garage, waved aside the general shape of Max, and grabbed the doorknob to the bathroom.  The door didn’t quite latch behind him, but he rattled around with the hook clasp until it caught, and sank down against the wall. _If the room is gonna to whirl so much around me,_ he thought, _maybe I shoulda staggered closer to the toilet._

On the other hand, sitting next to the _door_ put him about four feet from the door to the _garage,_ where over and around the sounds of his own pounding heart he could hear Max hissing at Billy through the door.  It was a nice reminder that although he had brought someone into his house who _threatened a child to make a point,_ she was okay.  Billy hadn’t actually burned her neck.  _Billy Hargrove,_ he groaned into his arms, _the person I was using to tell myself no kids were in danger.  He didn’t_ **_actually_ ** _hurt a kid to fuck with me, he just made it clear he...might._

“That’s all,” he yanked his shirt over his head, wiping the sweat off his face with it, and let himself slump to his side against the door.  The painted wood felt cool and good against his shoulder. “That’s all he did. How could I have known, right, the dude that almost beat my face in.  He beat some of his _own stupid_ into my _face,”_ he mumbled, listening to Max pounding on the door to the garage. _Glad she doesn’t have a cigarette burn on her neck now,_ he huffed a laugh. _Hope she doesn’t have cigarette burns anywhere else._

His hands shook, and he clenched them together, trying to breathe slowly.  “I-I know she’s _afraid_ of him,” he leaned his head back against the wall, his vision blurring.  “I _know_ she’s afraid of him.  And I _fucking_ brought him in here.  He _attacked Lucas,_ he tried to _hurt Max,_ he’s a--he’s a fucking grenade.   He’s a _land mine_ that I brought in my _house.”_

 _This is why Nancy’s too smart for me.  She probably saw this bullshit coming a mile away._ “My bullshit,” he snorted, feeling his lungs seize, and braced himself between the door and wall, as it felt like it was spinning away from him.  “Because I’m bullshit, she’s right, I’m _bullshit.”_

His breath wheezed through his teeth, and he muffled the noise with his sleeves.  “Fuck, Billy, what the _fuck.”_ He let his head thud back against the wall, and resisted the urge to do a _Billy,_ and thump it a few more times. _Sure isn’t helping his head any._ He concentrated on the burning pain in his lungs, and eyes, and tried to breathe. Billy still hadn’t responded to Max--he could hear her banging get louder, the rhythm a little slower than the blood pounding in his ears.   “Shit,” he mumbled into his sleeves. “Shit. Shit. _Bullshit._ Bull _fucking_ bullshit _bastard_ fuckhead _shitface.”_

He leaned there for a long time, letting his brain haze out.  For once he welcomed the way his vision swayed, and particles fell from the ceiling, and imaginary blue mist rose from the floor.  He could smell the earth of the tunnels again, and the metallic mud where blood had soaked in the ground.

 

It felt like hours later when Steve finally stomped out, grabbed a plate, and thumped one of Nancy’s nasty vanilla candles in the middle of it.  Max was sitting at the kitchen table writing out columns of math, her left hand clenched around her skateboard, and her foot tapping at the ground.  She glanced up, but kept her head lowered. “That candle smells like _shit_ clear over _here,”_ she said hoarsely.

“At least it doesn’t smell like the Upside-Down,” he leaned back, folding his arms, and she barked with laughter, leaning against the table.  

He couldn’t tell whether she was laughing or crying with her hand over her face, but her voice when she finally said “Light it, then,” was thick-sounding and wet.

He reached over and rattled around in the drawer of flashlights, clothespins, rubber bands, and, apparently, easter egg colors, and found the matches.  “Want me to take you home?”  

At that, she shoved back from the table and stomped in a circle around the kitchen, drawing shaky breaths, and wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeves, before dropping back in her seat. “I, uh.  I let Billy out.” Her voice was husky. “He’s home by now.”  

Steve clonked the plate down on the table.  “Shit. _Damn_ it.  He went _home?”_

“Yeah, he fucking went home!” she shoved the table at him, and he grunted as the leg of it slammed into his knee.  “You left me in here!  You--” she smacked her hands on the table. “You _grabbed_ him and _threw_ him and fucking locked him in there!  We thought you were calling Neil, until you--” she waved a hand, “--stumbled off to the bathroom like a goddamn drunk.  The hell is going _on,_ asshole!?”

“I have no _fucking_ clue,” he winced, rubbing his knee, and took a shaky breath.  His lungs seemed to have showed up for their shift, so that was something, anyway.  “He just--he came over to make _bread_ and he--he’s out of his _goddamn mind,_ I don’t--I don’t even care, come on, we gotta go get him back.”

“What the fuck do you mean, get him back?!”  She followed him to the hook where he hung his keys.  “Don’t give me that crap, what the hell were you fighting about?!  You--you didn’t get _that mad_ at him lighting up in your house.  You--if you’re gonna fucking--if you’re taking your bat, I’ll walk.”  She bit her lips together, and her grip tightened on the edge of her skateboard where her hand had been resting.  “I don’t wanna watch you get your _\--revenge,_ or whatever, come on, Steve, nobody got hurt.”

“Fuck,” he watched her set jaw, and red eyes, and swallowed.  “...no, that’s--it doesn’t ma--I mean, come on. We can yell in the _car,_ Max, I’m not trying to--I’m not bringing--” he waved his empty hands.  “--I’ll be mad at him when he’s not around his _dad,_ I can’t be mad at him if he might be getting his _face_ broken.”

“I’ll--I’ll come, I _guess,”_ she grabbed a paper towel and blew her nose.  “If--if you’re not gonna--do anything.  Like that.  But tell me what he fucking _did.”_

“He, uh.  He was fucking with me.  By threatening you.”

“What.” She kicked the table again.  “What?!  What in the _hell._   Damn it.  Fucking. _Fuckhead._ What the fuck.  So what, he--” her homework crumpled as she shoved it in her bag, then shoved her books in on top.

“I’d _told_ him he couldn’t--if he was--if _we_ were--” Steve pulled his coat on, waving around, then at himself.  “Just leave my goddamn _kids_ alone, fucking christ.  Just leave ‘em the fuck alone.”  

 “That didn’t even make sense.” she accepted a Ziploc for her bread, breathing slowly, and wiped her eyes.  “What, that was your deal, he could stay here and do--” she waved a hand, wrinkling her nose, _“--whatever,_ and he wasn’t supposed to _hurt us,_ and he managed to fuck that up?  The fuck, Billy.”

“How the hell do I know,” Steve ran his fingers through his hair.  “He was--he _was_ fucked up all _day,_ but usually like.  If he wants to fight he just--” he waved a hand.  “He just _does._ I thought he was doing better, I’m so goddamn--” he took a breath as shaky as hers.  “I’m so fucking sorry, Max.  Shit. I--I didn’t mean--”

“Shut up.  Shut the hell up, Steve, we’re mad at _Billy.”_

“Yeah, but I brought him _home._ To my _house,_ where a bunch of fucking _middle-schoolers_ come to feel _safe.”_

“Yeah, that’s probably why he wanted to be here,” she sidled closer, punching his shoulder.  “You and your hot chocolate and blankets.  You did a fucking nice thing and the asshole shit on it.  That’s what he fucking does.  He’s a fucking _piece of shit,_ everyone _knows_ this _.”_

Steve nodded, blowing out  the candle. “...jesus, that reeks.”  He opened the door to the garage for her, glancing around to see what kinda of wreckage he had to clean up.  It looked suspiciously tidy. “It smells as shitty as Billy,” she growled, and he snickered.  

“Sometimes he’s worse.”

“Because he’s _shitty.”_ She waited for him to open the car door, nearly crushing the bread in her grip before he tapped her hand to remind her.  

“...yeah.”  Steve sighed.  “Yeah, he really is.”

 

As he drove Max home, and listened to her saying _she_ was fine, it didn’t make any difference to _her,_ he tried to think.  “I don’t know whether to tell anyone.”

“What,” she looked over.

“I mean, what if Neil’s actually gonna kill him.  He needs someplace to go, and.  I mean, nobody trusts him anyway--”

“You’re still gonna--what?  Pull the hell over, Steve, what’s--you just wanna yell at him, or--”

He did, leaning his head against the steering wheel.  

“He threatens me _all the goddamn time,_ so--” her fingers on the bread pan were turning white.  “Steve. Did he hit you in the bathroom?”

“No!  No! He hit the wall.  He flipped out and punched the wall.”

She let her head fall back against the seat, closing her eyes.  “Something, anyway.”

“Shit.  I just want him--I don’t want him _here,_ but like--I don’t _want him,_ want him--”

She groaned.  “Christ, leave me out of it, if you’re gonna have, like, make-up sex, I don’t wanna know--”

“No!  No. I don’t want--I just don’t--I don’t wanna say the wrong thing and make him _worse--”_

“You can’t fucking make him _worse,_ you fucking _moron,”_ she punched his leg.  “You saying you don’t want me to say anything to anyone?  You want _me_ to keep a _secret_ so _Billy_ doesn’t get butthurt that _everybody knows_ he’s exactly like he damn well _is.”_

“Noooo,” Steve groaned into his arms. 

“Fine.  I won’t tell anybody.”  She swallowed. “Take me the fuck home, asshole.”

“I’m not saying _\--Max._ Just--go ahead and tell people he’s a _shithead._ Just maybe don’t...tell them he was doing it _at me?_   I don’t want, like, Dustin or Nancy trying to--”

“Ohhhh,” her eyes widened.  “Christ.  Yeah.  They’d fucking.  Dustin would _die._ You could just have Nancy shoot him in the dick, though.  Nobody’d think it was _her_ fault.”

“I don’t want him to get _shot.”_

Max was cackling.  “Fight of the exes!  Fight! Fight!”

“I’m taking you the fuck home.”  He pulled back onto the street, his lungs feeling a little less weighted.  “Thanks, Max.”

“...what’s one more secret,” she grunted.

“Sorry,” he sighed.  “You can come over too, y’know.  Bring Lucas. Watch a movie, I’ll--I’ll haul Billy upstairs to do homework.”

“Gross.  ...you offering some kinda big brother trade-in?” she punched him again, in the apparently universal incomprehensible Hargrove language of knuckles.  “Same number of years on you.”

“Less mileage, maybe.  Ow.”

“You’re so weird--ew, wait, am I _Dustin’s_ sister now?”

“Yeah.”  He smirked over.  “Welcome to the family.”

“Ew, then is Billy _your_ brother then?  Gross, Steve.”

“Oh no, you’re right!” he clapped his hands to his face, then grabbed the wheel again.  “The babies we won’t have will have three heads!”

She cackled.  “Make Billy carry them around.  Like a possum.”

“He’d probably drop them.”

“Oh no, your dickbabies!” she echoed, snickering.  “I am gonna hurl, shit.  Three heads.  Too much fucking _screaming.”_ It wasn’t even funny, really, but as he pulled close to their block, slowing in trepidation, they were both smiling.  “Steve, wait,” Max smacked his arm.  “Stop.  Let me out here.”

He pulled over again, frowning over.  “We gonna walk in the snow?”

“He’s already seen your car a couple times and talked to you on the phone, let’s get out here, or he’ll want to _talk--_ what’d he _say_ on the phone, anyway?  You sounded like a _robot.”_

Steve sighed, gripping the steering wheel.  “Probably the usual bullshit. Billy’s worthless and if I talk to him I’ll end up in jail.  Did he like...get _arrested_ or something?  In California? Why’d you have to leave?”

“Well he’s _Billy.”_ She snorted.  “So _probably._ Neil hates California, though,” she put on a growly voice, “‘Everyone there only wants money and sex!’  Hawkins, Indiana is a ‘traditional _American_ town full of _hard working people_.’  I guess Billy was going out a lot, like, getting phone calls?  Neil never lets people talk to him here, hardly. I don’t know.”  She kicked the floor mat.

“...he’s not allowed to use the _phone?”_

“I mean, he can _use_ it, but Neil always wants to know who he’s talking to, and he’ll grab it away from Billy and talk to them, and if somebody calls for Billy he usually tells them not to call again and hangs up.”

Steve felt his fury rising again, and blew out a slow breath.  “How the hell is he supposed to get a job, then.”

“Who’d _want_ him,” she opened her door, and he opened his, stepping out into the snow with a deep breath.  

“Yeah, but you don’t know anything he actually did?  He didn’t have a parole officer, or anything?”

“Mostly he just acts like an asshole all the time,” she rolled her eyes.  “He’s not the _mafia,_ Steve.  So. What are we doing.  You’re gonna call him out?”

“...not sure if I want your dad to notice.”

“He won’t care, he doesn’t want him having friends anyway, go ahead and scream your head off.”

“No, I’m--I’m not--” Steve stared at her.  “I don’t wanna _fight_ him.  I just want him to come _back.”_

“Okaaaaay,” she was squinting at him. _“Why,_ though?  I mean, you could get him alone _later._ Like, at _school?”_

“Your dad might actually _fight_ him,” he hissed, flailing.  “You saw what he was like tonight!”

“No,” she frowned, biting her lips.  “They don’t _fight,_ really, I mean he just kinda dishes out, and Billy takes it--”

“Jesus god fucking bastard,” he spun around, tromping towards their house, and nearly slid off the sidewalk on a patch of ice.  “Send him outside when you get back.”

“...he’s not gonna listen to _me,_ what--”

“How do I get him out here,” Steve stopped, facing her.  

“You _locked_ him in the _garage,”_ she had her eyes narrowed.  “Tell me what the fuck is going on, or I’m not helping.”

“Do you _seriously think_ I’m more dangerous than his _dad,”_ Steve flailed.  “I just pushed him in the garage, I didn’t hurt him!”

 _“You’re_ mad at him!  Neil won’t even notice him at this time of night!  He’ll go to school tomorrow!  It doesn’t _fucking matter--_ what’d he even _do--”_

“He f--he almost burned your goddamn neck off,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowing.  “I--I got him _away_ from you, and the--then I had to go--breathe.  For--just--help me get him.  Out of there.” 

“Jesus, Steve, breathe,” she squeezed his elbow, eyes wide.  “Damn, Steve.  Go _home._ Don’t just shake your head, _go--_ he’s _fine,_ he’s been okay for _years--”_

“He’s _not okay,”_ Steve rubbed his face, taking deep breaths.  “He’s an alcoholic asshole bag of _shit,_ but I am _taking him home._ Help me.  How am I--doing that.”  

“Go around and bang on his window,” she set her shoulders.  “I’ll keep everybody talking in the kitchen. Get him to climb out.  Just--tell him you’ll tell on him if he doesn’t,” she shrugged. “He’ll come.”

“...I don’t want to tell him that,” Steve grimaced.  

As they walked closer, Max lifted her head like a bird dog, and then Steve heard it--he wasn’t familiar with the guitar riff, but it definitely sounded like Billy’s music.  “Well, that’ll make it so _he_ can’t hear you, but I dunno how Billy’s gonna hear you either.”  Steve nodded, and she shoved him onward.  “Go get him.  Blessings, I guess, I sure don’t want him _back._ No returns.”

“Yeah,” he nodded.  “Oh. Max, you got a ride in the morning?”

“...I can just walk, there’s not _that_ much snow.  But--I’ll call, if--if anything.”  He nodded, and she took a deep breath.  “Uh, Steve. Thanks. For getting so mad.  For me.  And.” She stopped there, glaring at her bread, and he reached over to do a gentle push at her shoulder with his fist.

“Weak,” she snorted, and turned towards the front door, juggling her pack, skateboard, and bread through the snow.  

 

Steve crunched around the back of the house, feeling a bit like he was on patrol, and watching for shadows in the darkness.  The sides of the Hargrove house were somewhat lit by the neighbors, but he followed the music around to the back, and there was the forest.  Even knowing nothing had _happened,_ Steve took a deep breath of relief when he saw Billy’s window set in the hill, a bit higher up off the ground--not that demodogs couldn’t climb a bit, but at least they couldn’t casually hiss against the glass.  And after tonight, Billy wouldn’t be sleeping in there, and it wouldn’t matter.  He hoped Max was the window set next to it, and not one of the ones around the front, where anything could just smash in, no effort required. _I hope if something does, it eats Neil Hargrove._    

Behind the snowy windowsill, the light in Billy’s room was glistening off his muscles as he lifted weights, and Steve stared for a long second, licking his lips.  The song was blasting about somebody who was only seventeen.  Steve braced himself.

 _He ran scared,_ he reminded himself, jogging in place, and blowing on his fingers. _Sorry, Nancy, Hopper.  Finally get rid of the asshole that tried to murder me with fists, and here am trying to talk him back in._ He hadn’t considered his idiocy murder tally in a while, and he tried not to. _His dad wants him to die._ He blew through his cheeks. _I’m here because his dad wants him to die._

At least ten on the deserving-of-a-mercy-killing-by-smart-people tally today, he figured, giving himself three for staying in the restaurant bathroom after Billy chucked a bottle at his head, two for not calling Hopper when he had Billy locked safely in the garage, and a generous five for driving over and standing under his window, planning to convince him to come back and wreck more of his house.

When Steve tossed a snowball at his window, a dumbbell crashed to the floor.  He cringed, but tossed another one, and Billy came to the window.  He was yelling something over his shoulder, but he looked freshly showered and un-made-up.  He squinted out the window, and Steve grabbed another handful of snow, throwing it while it was still mostly fluff, so it sprinkled the window more than thumping it.  Billy stood, frowning down, long enough that Steve bent and hucked another snowball. 

When the snow fell away from the glass, Billy was gone.  The music got quieter, and he came back and lifted the sash, leaning awkwardly under the wood with his back bent.  “Hey, King Steve,” he folded his arms on the sill.  His cigarette hand was shaking.

“God.  Are you okay?  Climb out and come back,” Steve stage-whispered up.

“The fuck would I do that?” Billy glanced over his shoulder, taking a long drag on his cigarette.  “You said we’re done.”  His eyes were red, and his hands shook, and Steve wondered if he was still cold from his trek through the snow, after Max had thought _Steve_ was more of a danger than their _dad._

“Yeah, done _fucking,”_ Steve hissed up.  “I’m not sucking face with somebody that’d hurt a _kid,_ jesus, you _fuckhead.”_

“I didn’t,” Billy rolled his eyes.  

“Yeah, what if she’d stepped back, asshole.  Get your ass back in my house so I can be mad at you.”

“The hell does that mean?” Billy crouched, rubbing his arms.

“I can’t fucking be mad at you if I’m afraid he’s gonna--hit you with something!” Steve beckoned, flailing.  “Come the fuck on.  Come back and drink hot chocolate and we’ll--we’ll figure this out, come on.”

“--figure what out,” Billy leaned further out, shirtless and shivering.  His cigarette fell, and he told either it or Steve to fuck themselves, and dug out a new one.  

“Christ, put a shirt on, it’s freezing.  Throw me a bag, man, pack some clothes, come _on.”_

“...you want me to come back with you _why?”_ Billy hugged his arms, leaning his chin on the windowsill, and looked about twelve years old.  Steve wondered if his dad had hit him then, too.  

“I can’t be mad at you until I know you’re _safe,”_  he blew on his hands.  “You’re not _safe_ here--”

“You’re the one who’s pissed off,” Billy snorted.  “Marched me out of that bathroom like there was a firing squad.”

“...after we made out for like ten minutes,” Steve frowned up, then around.  “I wasn’t that mad.” _Was I even mad?  He’s like a natural disaster, I don’t even think to get mad, I’m just counting the sandbags and bottled water.  I’m not even--_ “God, you’re exhausting.  You guys should have a garden chair or something out here.”

“...it’d be covered in snow,” Billy hissed back, leaning further out.  “If you’re cold, go home, idiot.”

 _“I’m_ the idiot?  Get a blanket or something, asshole, there’s snow on the ground, if you didn’t notice.  Your arms are _in the snow.”_

“There’s some stranger in my yard trying to get me to _run away with him,”_ Billy leaned away, then came back, pulling on a sweatshirt.  He brushed the snow off the windowsill.

 _“You should definitely go with the stranger,”_ Steve called up, wishing Neil Hargrove was away, so he could actually yell.  Or climb in, and drag the idiot out the _door.  “The stranger has candy, and he’s getting really fucking cold--”_

Billy glanced over his shoulder, smacking his hand over a laugh at Steve’s shivery growl.

“Come on, Hargrove.  It’s the goddamn balcony scene, what are you waiting for, like a song, or a swordfight--” he spread his arms, feeling like he was challenging the other boy to a duel.

“Yeah, why is the most popular boy in school under _my_ window,” Billy rested his chin on his arms.  “You bring your bat?” 

“No!  No, swear to god, Hargrove, I’m not trying to--to trick you, or--I just--”

“Fuck off, Harrington, I’m not _that_ fucking _\--impaired._ I’m not coming down.”

Steve took a slow breath, rubbing his face.  “It’s not a joke, to you, about the bat.  Is it.”

Billy laughed, looking away.  “It’s hilarious, the fuck do you mean.  Nice guy Steve Harrington and his blood-soaked nailbat.  Sounds like a kid’s book.”

 _Shit, he seriously thinks--_ “Kinda does,” Steve stomped his feet, face screwed up in thought.  “Something Mike’s mom would read.  ‘I will not hit you with the bat.  I do not care where you are at,’” he smirked up, but paused, frowning at his hands.  “Uh, ‘Do drugs, drunk drive, do this, do that, I _will not hit you with that bat.’ ”_

Billy stared at him for a long second, before making a noise that sounded like he might be starting to cry, but turned into cackling giggles.  “That was so bad, christ, no wonder Nancy dumped your ass.”

“I know, right?” Steve wrinkled his nose, and blew into his hands.  “Your dad is such a fucking asshole. Chill out, Hargrove, I’m not a _serial killer._ What if I leave it at Dustin’s house?  Or Mrs. William’s.”

“...what?”  Billy wiped his nose, frowning.

“You were scared _of me_ all day,” Steve squinted toward the front of the house, trying to figure out how they got from Billy beating his skull in on the Byers’ floor to Billy flinching into the grocery store salsa display.  

“Shut up, you were fucking _pissed off_ all day,” Billy’s snickering had turned wet again.  “The fuck did I even do, thought you were gonna slam my head in the fucking car door.  I hadn’t even been a goddamn disgrace in the restaurant yet.”

“Jesus _fuck,_ Hargrove,” Steve whispered.

“Didn’t know you’d be so pissed Max called.  I coulda _walked in,_ jesus--”

“Wait, what?” Steve bounced on his toes, rubbing his arms.  “I wasn’t mad, that was fine. I’m trying to get your ass in my car right _now,_ dude, I like it way better in there than--”

“You said you wanted to _run my dad over,”_ Billy blew a smoke ring.  “Fucking...wrong side of the bed this morning?”

“No,” Steve blinked up.  “He was being an asshole.  I wouldn’t actually _run someone over,_ not unless he was like...shooting at people.”

“Like you didn’t hit anything with the bat,” Billy sighed, leaning his forehead on his arms, then waved the cigarette.  “What’s the blood from, your _royal majesty?”_

“It wasn’t a _person,”_ Steve almost rolled his eyes, then remembered Billy’s urgent whispers in the kitchen, asking to apologize, the way he kept insisting Steve had let his head fall against the bolt of his door, and Max’s shaky voice on the phone saying _“I think he, uh.  I--I think he slammed him into a few other things,”_ she’d said. _“The tub makes a noise.”_ Steve rubbed his face. _We showed him the bloody nail bat as a threat, and here I am, expecting him to know I’m different._ “Okay, yeah, I gotta tell you, or you won’t know, right.  Something got out of the Hawkins Lab--”

“Yeah, you said that,” Billy leaned out further, almost close enough for Steve to jump and grab his arm, yanking his legs into the sill, his body upside-down through the window, dumping him in a tangle of limbs in the snow.

He elected not to grab for him. _Billy’s got enough head trauma._ “It wasn’t--they’re fucking hard to describe, the Scooby Squad calls them, uh, ‘demodogs’.  Billy mouthed it, head warily cocked.  “Like these--blue Chuck Norrises--but their heads open like fucking _banana peels with teeth--”_

“What,” Billy cocked his head, squinting.

“They did!” Steve heard how loud his own voice got and bit his lips, and they both listened for a long second.  He dropped back to a stage whisper.  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me--”

“I believe you believe it,” Billy took a long drag on his cigarette, eyes narrowed.  “What’d the drugs do?”

“Drugs?  I didn’t--”

“The shit you shot me up with.  That help you see blue monsters?”

“That--that was a--that made you _sleep,_ dipshit, I didn’t have any of that.  Anyway, they were just wandering around, tunneling--”

 _“Tunneling,”_ Billy raised his eyebrows.

“All these goddamn tunnels, man, it was like huge--evil--maneating--gophers--”

“Oh my god,” Billy snorted into his arms.  “Gophers, what the hell.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m not fucking _\--word wizard_ Billy Hargrove, shut up.”  Billy’s head jerked up, cocked.  _“Anyway,_ they killed Nancy’s friend--Barbara Holland--and, oh, some hunters, Mrs. Williams’ dogs, Bob Newby--he ran the Radio Shack--”

“Holy fuck,” Billy’s mouth dropped open.  

“Some police officers, some soldiers--” Steve resisted the urge to count on his fingers, watching Billy’s frown deepen.  “--some techs from the lab--oh, Dustin’s cat--”

“...we’d have heard about it,” Billy sat back further inside, but kept his eyes fixed on Steve’s.  

“Well, I mean, everybody did, they just weren’t real specific about what happened.  Exactly.”  

Billy leaned away to rummage around, returning with another cigarette. _“Exactly?”_

“Yeah, they said something leaked into the ground, a chemical leak.  An _asphyxiant._ Lots of closed-casket funerals.”

“Some kinda hallucinogen,” Billy rolled his eyes.  “On lab specimens?  Like...dogs?  Or something?  Apes?  Something big.”

“This is why I didn’t wanna tell you,” a droplet of icy water rolled off the gutter and down the back of Steve’s ear, and his shivers turned into a full-body shudder. _“Fucking_ hell.” 

“--and in the middle of all this bullshit,” Billy paused to light up from his stub, “--you were at the _Byers_ house, with a--with a fucking _bat,_ and a bunch of kids, and--and ‘monsters’ everywhere?!  Who the fuck are their parents?  A _bat?_ Doesn’t anyone in this shithole town have a _gun?!”_ he stood, and stomped away from the window, then clomped back to flick the stub of his cigarette at Steve.  Not being very aerodynamic, it missed by several feet.  “A _fucking bat,_ they gave you.”

“Don’t fall out the window,” Steve snorted.  “Uh,” he bit his lips together, taking a deep breath, and considered how to explain Eleven.  Billy raised his eyebrows.

“Gonna lie now?”

“No.  No, just--they were all trying to get rid of--there’s just a _lot,_ shit.  They were luring them away from us.”

“‘Luring them,’” Billy repeated, _“Where?”_

“Back to the lab.  They had a way to kill them--”

“Better than a _baseball bat,”_ Billy ran his fingers through his hair, sighing.  “What the hell was the syringe about, then.”

“Oh,” Steve cringed.  “That was for Will. He was really sick, like, hallucinating, he drew all those pictures everywhere.”

Billy rubbed the side of his neck.  “You shot me up with some _...medicine?”_

“We doped you up with what we had to knock him out,” Steve accepted the blame for Max’s syringe-grab.  “Saved my life, probably, you shithead.  Come on.”

“Probably thought I was King Kong that whole time,” Billy stared down at him.  “What, that’s all I get?”

“I’ll answer all the questions you _want_ when I’m not kinda afraid your _dad_ will walk in and do--whatever you thought I was gonna do, christ.  Come on, Hargrove,” he unclenched his hands to beckon.  “More horrified than mad, here.”

“...you drove over to get me back in your car ‘cause you’re _worried,”_ Billy raised an eyebrow, snorting.

“Look, you’re--you’re a goddamn _human--person--being,_ I can’t just leave you for him to--whatever, christ.  I had to let you out of the trunk, I couldn’t let you drive away drunk, and I can’t let him--the hell did you think I was gonna do, anyway?”

“Like I know,” Billy huffed, leaning his head against the window frame.  “Wouldn’t let me apologize. Thought I might as well get it out of you with Max there.”

“What,” Steve walked up to lean back against the side of the house, and closed his eyes, pressing his hand hard across them until he saw lights.  

“You wouldn’t wanna scare Max,” Billy’s voice came from above.  “Hardly gonna cave my skull in with Max there. You don’t wanna scare kids.”

“You thought I was mad this morning, so as soon as she was gone, you got out of the car and ran,” Steve said slowly, feeling like he was in one of those airplane safety videos, waiting for the oxygen mask to drop, only his was defective. _Maybe I’ll get sucked out of the plane._

“Harrington.  Shit,” there was a knock against the wall over his head.  “I had my fingers between her and the cigarette.  She was fine, fuck, Steve, come on.”  Steve looked up to see Billy’s hand flat against the siding, a couple inches above his head.  He reached up and held his next to it, and Billy took a shaky breath.  “...don’t just yank me out.  Break my fucking neck.”

“I won’t,” Steve waggled his fingers, and let his eyes fall shut again at the feeling of Billy’s warm calluses against his nearly-frozen hands.  He squeezed.

“Christ, you’re gonna get hypothermia,” Billy mumbled.

“Standing in the snow ‘cause some stupid asshole took Stranger Danger to heart,” Steve let his head fall against the siding.  “Come back, okay?”

Billy yanked his hand away at the sound of a knock, and Steve smacked the side of the house, stepping away to see inside.

“Come on, come _on,”_ he hissed, and Billy frowned at him, glancing between him and the sound.  The door creaked.  

“What the hell, you didn’t go?  Jesus fuck,” Max slammed the door again, and Billy yelled after her to get the hell out, then came to the window again, rubbing his face.  

“So you...you fucking told Max you’d get me to leave.”

“She knows I’m trying,” Steve rubbed his arms, stomping his cold feet.  “She’s supposed to be keeping them in the kitchen, but she probably thought one of us would give up by now.”

“She’s--she’s a goddamn--I’m fucking allowed to live here too,” Billy bared his teeth.  “He drug me here all the way from California.  Until I can get a _job,_ I have to _live_ here, she can’t--” he stomped away.

“...Hargrove.  Come to my place,” Steve whispered back.  After a few seconds, he threw another snowball, and heard muttered swearing from inside.  “Billy.  You know you don’t wanna be here, throw your school shit out.  Pack some clothes.”

“What, as a favor to _Max?_ Get her dumbshit drunk brother…” he disappeared again, and Steve leaned under the window, whispering his name.  After a long four minutes of silence, Billy stuck his head out again.  “Fine.  I’ll--I’ll disappear.  Fine.  Fucking--whatever, I’ll go--I’ll find a fucking way back to California.  Just a goddamn minute.”  

“Hey, Max didn’t ask me to get you.”  Steve waited, and caught the bookbag before it dumped over in the snow.  

“Then it’s to fucking protect her, isn’t it,” Billy leaned his head out to snarl.  He tossed his gym bag, and peeled out of his sweatshirt to toss it down too.  “From the fucking--fucking _rabid dog,”_ he laughed unevenly, lifting the sash further to swing a leg out the window.  “Gonna take me out to the corn crib and shoot me in the head?”

“Jesus.”  Steve grimaced up at Billy’s grin.  “I’m taking you somewhere _safe_ because you think worrying about that shit is _normal._ The fuck are you _doing?_ Put a shirt on.”  He shook out the sweatshirt, waiting for Billy to stop watching him and decide.  

After grabbing a skinny little sleeveless t-shirt and yanking it over his head, Billy finally got his other leg out the window, tight jeans flexing over his ass as he lowered himself quietly from the sill and dropped.  He smacked a hand into Steve as the snow gave way unevenly, then jerked back, crossing his arms. Steve drug his gaze up from the jeans to the naked shoulders and biceps, swallowed, and cleared his throat. The snow crunched under their sneakers, in a small cloud of panted breath.  Billy stood in the snow, the reflected light from the streetlights gilding his hair and biceps, and Steve stepped in close.  

“You look okay.  Are you hurt--worse?”  

“The fuck are you doing,” Billy allowed himself to be turned around, but his skin was rapidly reddening as Steve ran fingers along his side, then over his shoulder, looking for new bruises.  

Steve reached up and tucked the soft curls back again, narrowing his eyes at the bruises he’d seen after gym, in the shower.  He ran his thumb along the marks Neil’s fingers had left, and Billy licked his lips. “Did he hit you some more? Did anything happen?  Shit, you’re bright red, come on, why didn’t you keep your _shirt_ on,” Steve handed him the sweatshirt, and zipped it up when Billy left it open.  “C’mon, man. You’re gonna freeze solid.  Get warm.”

“Shut up,” Billy said hoarsely, and Steve handed over the gym bag.  

“If you freeze solid, I will flip my shit again,” Steve grabbed his hand again, tugging him along back to the car.  “I’ll carry your icicle back and throw you in a hot tub and _then_ yell at you, so help me god.”

Billy snorted, but allowed himself to be drug along.  

At the car, Steve had to let go of his hand, and Billy raised his eyebrows at the hesitation.  “...seriously thought you might be dead, Hargrove,” he squeezed before letting go. “...you’re such a _fuckhead_ I want to keep track of you--get in the _car_ before your dad brings his _\--chainsaw,_ or something.”  Once they tossed his shit in the back seat, and Steve had the heat cranked, he looked over again.  “You look about the same,” he set his jaw.  “You okay?  He didn’t do anything before I got here?”

“The fuck do you care?” Billy curled away from him, leaning his head against the window.  “Talked to him long enough earlier. Tell him about Max, he’ll fuck me up for you.”

“...cared enough to come chase you down, you fucking...dickhead,” Steve held his hand over the heating vents on Billy’s side, and cranked them open, turning the heat on full.  “I can’t--shit. I had to get your ass back and--I’m so--I’m so fucking sorry about.  Everything.  Shit.”  He took a long, shuddering breath, and he saw Billy’s dark gaze fasten on him in the light of passing cars.

“What.  What the hell are _you_ sorry for.”

“Sorry.  You--you fucking _told_ me.  You kept saying you were gonna get beat, I _saw_ you covered in glass from that cooking sherry--he fucking--he broke a _bottle_ over your head?”

“The hell do you wanna hear,” Billy hunched in his hoodie.  

“I guess,” Steve waited to turn his headlights on until he’d turned the car around, “I just--there’s a lot going on, with me, I didn’t--you punch shit all the time, you punch me--”

“Look, you _win,_ I’m fucking leaving already, what do you _want,”_ Billy rolled his head against the headrest, blinking rapidly at the ceiling.

“No!  No, I’m just _saying,_ Max is punchy!  You--you fucking punch each other--I didn’t _get_ it.  I didn’t know he said that shit to you, he doesn’t let you use the _phone--_ you’re really fine?”

“He lets me use the phone,” Billy muttered.  

“Yeah?” Steve raised his eyebrows, and Billy looked away to watch the road, biting his lips.  

 

When they pulled into Steve’s garage, Billy grabbed his stuff, swearing under his breath.  The house smelled like gross bathroom candle and fresh bread.  Billy frowned around, wrinkling his nose, and flinched back as Steve grabbed his hand again, leading him up to the other bedroom.  The door opened on a king-size fourposter with a fluffy, flowered down comforter and matching walls, and Billy stopped in the doorway, dragging on Steve’s hand.

“I can’t sleep _here.”_

“Sure you can,” Steve let him go, threw open the empty closet, and yanked on a few drawers in the matching dressers, ignoring Billy’s quizzical glare.  “Once we get your car fixed, you can bring your shit here until you get things figured out.” He pointed to the beige rotary phone.  “It’s a different line, you can use that number for job stuff...IIII need to remember to make a phone call.”

“Until you throw me out, you mean,” Billy snorted.  

Steve scrabbled at his hair.  “I’m--I’m still fucking pissed.  You’re--you’re an asshole, you were _screaming at me in my kitchen_ earlier, you--” he took a deep breath, “--all that--happened.  But I’m kinda...more pissed off you thought you were gonna fucking _die,_ you thought I was gonna _kill_ you or something because--” he cocked his head, frowning.  “I don’t even know, dude.  He’s got you convinced nobody’s safe.  But you can stay as long as you want.”

“Oh, sure,” Billy stepped closer to the bed, frowning around, and crossed his arms.

“No, I’m serious,” Steve flicked the latch at the top of the door.  “Look, it locks from in here.  If you’re freaked out about something, I can’t get in.  Nobody can get in.”

“I mean, you could break the door,” Billy pointed out, but he sat cautiously on the bed, listening.  The comforter poofed up around him, smelling like flowers, and a bit like dust.

“Okay,” Steve frowned around.  “You’d hear it, though. You could...lock yourself in the bathroom, or go out the window and drop down.”

“...spend a lot of time planning escape routes from your house?” Billy raised his eyebrows, and Steve dropped next to him, huffing a laugh, and groaning into his hands.  

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do, actually--oh,” he waved down.  “Mind if I sit down?”

“...nooo,” Billy squinted at him.  “It’s your--”

“Your room.”  

“Really not.”

“Really is.”  Steve fell backwards across the bed with a _pwoof_ of comforter, groaned, and reached over to prod at Billy’s elbow.  

Billy leaned back alongside him, turning on his side to prop his head up with his hand and watch Steve. 

“Thanks for _adjusting your schedule,”_ Steve sighed.  “I couldn’t’ve slept knowing you were back there.”

“You don’t anyway,” Billy shrugged.  

“And I’d have gotten really cold yelling at your window all night.  Sorry I wasn’t really--paying attention,” Steve frowned at the ceiling, then looked over.  “Okay, you keep talking about rules and what I want. I _want_ my shitheads to be safe.”

“Yeah, I fucking get it,” Billy growled, tugging at his earring.  

“I’ll tell ‘em to leave me alone while you’re here.  I can hang out other places.”

“What?  I’m not a fucking _\--junkyard dog.”_ Billy pushed himself up, glowering.  

“I can’t _trust_ you, Hargrove,” Steve rubbed his face, groaning.  “I’ve got no fucking clue what you’ll do _.  You_ don’t have any goddamn idea yourself!  Shouldn’t have tried the _first_ time, holy shit, Steve, you fucking moron.  Hopper said he didn’t much like you around the kids, and of course dumb Steve Harrington here, no, sure, sir, I got this, he _listens_ to me, what the fuck could go wrong--he just attacked Lucas because he was pissed off, obviously he kissed me so he’s totally changed--”

Billy leaned his head back, looking away towards the door.  “So all this handholding, it was just to get me in the car, you still think I’m--I’m a fucking _\--danger zone.”_

Steve reached over and ran his thumb over the clenched fist Billy was leaning on.  “Sorry I...said some shit,” Steve folded his arms over his face.  “I’m still fucking _pissed,_ but I shouldn’t have--made it sound like I--I give some shits,” he snorted.  “I do.  Give tons and-- just--tons of shit whether you’re dead.  Jesus.”

“...you sweet-talking me, Harrington?”  Instead of snickering, like Steve anticipated, Billy shifted closer.  “You’re shit at it.”

“I knoooooow,” Steve groaned, rolling to sprawl sideways across the bed.  “I’m shit at a lot of things.”

Billy shifted behind him, his breath warming Steve’s ear.  “Let me--lemme apologize, my liege lord.  Come on.  Your Majesty.  King Steve.”

“Yeah, that’d be fantastic, actually--” Steve’s exhausted mutter turned into a “What the _jesus,_ Hargrove--” as Billy spooned up behind him, sliding a hand around Steve’s waist and unbuttoning his jeans.  He elbowed back, scrambling away from Billy’s tongue on his neck, and landed on his butt next to the bed.  He tucked his chin back up over the edge of the mattress to glare, and Billy started sniggering.  “Who the _hell_ have you been apologizing to?!”

“Doesn’t matter--” 

“The hell it doesn’t.  Use your _goddamn words,_ asshole.”

“What do you want me to say?” 

Steve glowered over the edge of the bed at him, suspecting sarcasm, but Billy was just waiting, plucking at the bedspread like his fingers wanted something to do.  “Fucking--fucking apologize for--the _kitchen,_ you asshole--”

“I’m sorry I burned you,” Billy watched his face, and Steve blinked, remembering.  In the mess over Max, he’d forgotten.  

“Yeah, okay, you didn’t _mean_ to,” Steve raised his eyebrows.  “Right? It wasn’t some huge stupid plot to burn my knuckles off.”

Billy huffed a laugh.  “Yeah, no.  Didn’t mean to.”

“I don’t care, it was an accident, I’m not mad about that.”  Billy bit his lips, nodding.  “Say it sooner next time, and I’ll be like ‘no problem’.  Well, go on.” 

“Yeah,” Billy nodded again.  “...gimme three tries.  I’m in the slow class, y’know,” he laughed.  “I’m sorry I tried to--to trick you, to control you, it’s your house, I don’t make the rules, I can’t--I can’t make you do anything--”

“What the fuck,” Steve glared up, resting his chin on the edge of the bed, and Billy swallowed. _“Max,_ Hargrove.”

“I’m an irresponsible and disrespectful brother, and I’m sorry.  I was rude all afternoon, Max deserves better,” Billy rattled off, then took a shaky breath, watching Steve’s face.  “You _both_ deserve someone better.  I’ll be--I’ll try harder.  I won’t fuck up, I’ll stop fucking up--you look like a goddamn prairie dog sitting down there.  I’m still fucking up, aren’t I, shit, I’m a _fucking idiot,_ Harrington, tell me what you wanna hear.  Tell me what to say.”  He crawled over to drop off the bed onto the floor, facing Steve, and crossed his legs.  His eyes and eyelashes were wet, and his voice was getting hoarse again.  The vacuum-marks in the white carpet vanished, then returned as he ran his hands over them, breathing shakily, and Steve narrowed his eyes, reaching out to catch Billy's hands.  

“...I meant the cigarette and Max’s neck,” he squeezed Billy’s fingers.

“No,” Billy shook his head at their hands, mouth quirked.  “You wouldn’t get so pissed off you’d _want me to die_ for something I didn’t even do.  If I’d _done_ it, yeah,” he glanced up, and his eyes widened.  “Shit, no, that was it,” he grinned, the water in his eyes shining.  “I’m--I’m so fucking dumb I don’t _get_ it, but I’m sorry--”  

“Shit,” Steve yanked a hand free, and held Billy’s mouth shut with his thumb.  “Shush, it’s--shut up a minute, lemme think.”  Billy nodded, closing his eyes, and the tears he’d been holding back ran down his cheeks.  Steve took a long breath.  “You thought I was already pissed off,” he tried, and Billy nodded against his hand.  “You wanted me to just...get mad already, so it’d be over, with Max there so I wouldn’t _kill you.”_

Billy opened his mouth to run his tongue around Steve’s thumb, and Steve ignored the heat in his cheeks.  “Come on, get off the floor, back on the bed.”

“You gonna let me apologize the other way now?” he pulled Steve up after him, crawling to lie in the middle.  “My mouth knows what it’s fucking _doing_ with a cock in--”

“No, shut up,” Steve sat next to him, taking his hand.  “Okay. You haven’t been--that Billy that beat my face in.  That attacked Lucas.  Lately.”

“Fuck,” Billy rolled his face against Steve’s knee, and Steve felt an urge to punch his shoulder for interrupting, but decided it was absolutely not the time.  

“Shut it, asshole.  You--you’ve been somebody I kinda…”  Billy was quiet, listening, and Steve slid his fingers into the soft curls, only to feel Billy’s shoulders shaking.  “Stop laughing--I kinda want you _around._ All the time.” 

“Fuck,” Billy muttered again.

“I saw you with Max and I just--I thought you--I let a fucking _monster_ in my house, you were gonna _burn her,_ acting like your fucking dad--I thought I was gonna puke up a lung--” Steve got all out in one breath, and closed his eyes.   

“No, I didn’t even _scare_ her, I did good with little Will Byers, right.  And Eleven.  It hasn’t--it hasn’t even been _two weeks,”_ Billy rolled onto his back, frowning up, and wiped his eyes.  “I’m gonna fuck up,” he grinned again, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. _“Again._ You’re gonna wish I was dead.”

“Shit, no, fuckhead.  You’re not, not--” Steve ran his thumb along Billy’s cheek, wiping the tears away, and leaned to smack a kiss on his forehead.  “You’re not gonna do that shit again.  Not if you know I wanna protect you too, you stupid asshole.  You don’t have to--get all--I don’t know, do _chess exercises_ on me, I want you safe.  If you start to get crazy, you can go for a run or something, or lock yourself in here, or--” he frowned around, ignoring Billy’s muffled giggles.  “I don’t have any ideas.  You’re smart, we can think of a plan.  Keep Billy Hargrove feeling safe so he doesn’t burn the world down,” he shrugged, and Billy curled around him again, his laughter wet and panicky.

 

Later, once their breaths had evened, Steve frowned at the phone in his hand.  He looked up and met Billy’s eyes, and blew his cheeks out, then leaned against the headboard and dialed.  Billy leaned close, so the phone was pressed between their ears.  Eleven answered.  

“Hopper residence,” she growled, and Steve could hear Hopper shouting something in the background.  He felt Billy swallow.

“Hey, El, it’s Steve, could I talk to your dad?”

“What the hell, Harrington,” Billy hissed, but shut up as she dropped the phone, or something.  They winced in unison.

Over the clunking and feedback noises came her muffled yell, “I WON’T TELL YOU UNTIL YOU AGREE,” and then scrabbly noises, and Hopper’s voice.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.  You’re right.  Hello?”

“H-Hopper,” Steve cleared his throat.  Billy was rigid with tension against him.  “Do--do you have a minute?”

“It’s pretty late, is this Steve Harrington?” he sounded amused.  “Yeah, kid, what’s going on?”

“Uh,” Steve slid an arm around Billy, squeezing him.  He didn’t relax.  “If--can--can I tell you something, and you just--just believe me?  I’m _sure,_ it’s not--I’m not being stupid, or--”

“Yeah, of course, kid, what’s going on?”  A scraping noise came through like he was pulling out a chair.

“Uh.  Billy’s dad.  Billy and Max’s dad, he’s--I know he’s told you--stuff--”  Billy’d turned his face into Steve’s shoulder, swallowing repeatedly.

“He’s done that, yeah,” Hopper waited.

“He’s--” _What,_ Steve tightened his hold on Billy, feeling hot skin where his sweatshirt had rucked up. _Evil?  Hitler?_ “It’s--it’s not true, what he’s said.  He’s--he scares them with nail guns, he--” _Says mean things, he...makes them...act...bad?_

“Not gonna matter,” Billy whispered, taking another shaky breath, but pressing his ear closer to the phone.

 _“Nail_ guns?” Hopper’s voice had gone appropriately grim, and Steve took courage, and a deep breath.

“Yeah.  He’s--he’s violent.  He hits him--hits him in the _face_ all the time _._ He broke a _bottle_ over his head.  Please don’t--don’t take him back there.  He’s staying here--if you--if you see him around, don’t take him to his dad.”  

“Not gonna matter,” Billy whispered again, his nails scraping Steve’s skin through his shirt as he tightened his grip.

Hopper could probably hear him, but he was quiet for a second.  “...I will pass the word on.”  It felt like Billy’s lungs seized--he made this high gulping sound, and Steve drew him in tighter.  “Are they both okay?  Do I need to send a car around?”  Billy’s face was in a wet spot against Steve’s shoulder and neck, and Steve could feel him shuddering, even though he was nearly silent.  

“Max is still home,” Steve cringed at Hopper’s soft “Shit.”  “I--I mean--he always--he focuses on Billy.  I told her to call me if anything--I can pick her up, or bring her here, she says she’s fine--”

“Did something happen today?” Hopper asked, his voice extremely even, and Steve flinched back from the phone.  

“I--I realized some things,” he ran his free hand up to tangle his fingers in Billy’s hair.  “I hadn’t--I didn’t think, I didn’t know how bad it was.  I went and got Billy, I set him up here.”

“Is that putting _you_ at risk?  Do you want me to come talk to him?”

Billy huffed a wet laugh, and Steve lifted the phone to lean their heads together.  “I--I--no, I don’t think so?  We--get along, pretty much.”

“He’s gonna wanna talk to me,” Billy swallowed, but didn’t try to take the phone.

Hopper was quiet again.  “I’ll take your word for it.  But if you need anything--”

“I’ll let you know,” Steve felt his own throat closing up at the sound of someone willing to come _save_ him from his own stupid decisions, like the homicidal classmate currently most of the way into his lap.  “Maybe--don’t let his dad know he’s here, I mean, he’ll probably figure it out, but--”

“Yeah, kid.”  He muttered something vaguely obscene, and Steve grinned.  “And you believe Max is okay?”

“I mean, for now?  I don’t--he’s not--it’s not _Billy’s_ fault his dad’s like that,” Steve growled, and Billy went still for a second, like he was holding his breath.  “He’s fu--uh, he’s--he’s crazy, it’s not like if Max is perfect he’ll never do this shit to _her._ I think--I think it might take him a little while, though.”

“El, hon, come here,” Hopper called.  “Okay, I need to get on this from my end.  Anything else I can do?”

“Don’t think so,” Steve repeated the good night, and let the cord pull the handset off the bed, wrapping his arms around Billy.  “Jesus, I can feel your heart pounding.”

“Can’t believe you came and talked me out of the window, you’re--you’re a goddamn lunatic,”  Billy nuzzled against his neck, pulling away so his breath warmed Steve’s jaw. He smelled like _Billy,_ his cologne mostly worn off but still faintly good, some kind of alcohol behind the cigarettes he’d been chaining in the window, warm and just a little sweaty.  “The fuck did you do,” he laughed under his breath, ducking his head.  “Fucking--how did--I had to call in a _fire,_ to get cops to come.  Never fucking believed me.”  Up close, and shining with water, his eyes looked like the glowing blue-green water in travel photos of Hawaii.  Steve resisted the juvenile urge to lick under Billy’s wet eyelashes, half compelled to break the weirdly sincere eye contact, and half wary of his probable flinch.  “Told me to stop making prank calls.”  Billy’s eyes flicked to Steve’s mouth, then up to his eyes again, and he grinned, licking his lips and leaning in to nearly brush lips.  Steve’s head thudded back against the headboard, but as he opened his mouth ask whether this was another apology, or whether Billy actually wanted to kiss him, or if it was something _new_ and horrible, like payment for room and board, Billy shoved away.  

 _“Shit._ Damn it.”  He flopped back against the comforter, staring at the ceiling.  “Fine, I know, we’re done.” His foot thumped against Steve’s knee.

“No, not--I didn’t get--shit.”  Steve rubbed his face, feeling his brain wanting to go home, and ready to switch off the lights.  He punched his thighs, taking a deep breath, and felt microscopically more awake.  “Hargrove. You--you _just tried_ to fuck me out of being pissed off.  You...threatened a _kid_ to make me _attack_ you.”  

“Dumb doing it in the kitchen.  Kinda surprised Max didn’t knife me.”  Billy snorted wetly, and Steve wrinkled his nose, reaching over to the bedside table for a Kleenex, and tossing it at his face.

“We just...you _ran away_ from me a couple hours ago because you think I’m some kind of _...baseball bat murderer._ ”

“Yeah,” Billy agreed again, sliding his toes under Steve’s t-shirt.  He blew what sounded like half the contents of his head into the tissue, and Steve grimaced, tossing the box over.  “Figured a straight guy wouldn’t mind a bunch of crying,” Billy laughed, sitting up to blow his nose again.  He wiped his eyes.  “Fucking figures.  Never been so sexy, right.”

“I just--I don’t--” Steve couldn’t imagine Billy Hargove _not_ being sexy.  “Are you even--”

“Fine, I get it,” Billy grabbed the growing pile of used Kleenex, and stalked off to the bathroom.  “Get out, I might--might fucking whine some more.  Shut the hell up, Billy, nobody fucking cares.”  He slammed the door.

Steve groaned, letting himself tilt, slide along the headboard, and faceplant in the pillows.  After a short asphyxiation period, he went and knocked. “Hargrove.”

“Washing my face, _Harrington,_ why does all your soap look like pink goddamn glitter seashells, what the hell--” 

Steve burst out laughing, letting himself slump down to sit against the door.  “Y’know.”

“I know what,” Billy growled, as the faucet turned on, then off, then on again.

“I just need--I want to--” he sighed.  Billy’s footsteps came closer and smacked the door.  “I don’t think you’re...”

 _“What,_ Harrington, the suspense is killing me.”

“Holy jesus, wait, I just realized you can _cook,”_ Steve stared at all the matching furniture.  “There’s fresh _bread_ down there.  Hargrove.  Let’s go eat some _goddamn bread.”_

Billy opened the door and frowned down, and Steve leaned back against his leg, looking up at the now pink and fresh-faced Billy Hargrove.

“You’re a little glittery,” he informed him.  “Much sexier.”

“...you’re falling asleep, aren’t you,” Billy sighed, but put a hand down to haul Steve upright.  “Is this when the weird Harrington rituals start?  Do I have to watch singing mice?” he wrinkled his nose, and Steve held on to his hand, dragging him downstairs.  Just as they came around the corner of the stairs, the phone started ringing, and Billy stuck his face right up next to Steve’s as he picked up.

“We do this now, right,” he whispered, his mouth quirked, and Steve stared at his lips until the “Hello? _Hello?”_ s from the phone finally caught his attention.  

“Yuh,” he cleared his throat.  “Uh, hello, this is the Harrington residence.”

“Hi, hon, sorry it’s late, this is Joyce, Joyce Byers?” 

Steve’s heart shot into overdrive.  “Hi, Mrs. Byers, do you need help?”

“Oh!  No, no!  I’m sorry--” she sounded frazzled, and they could hear Will’s voice in the background shouting ‘Mom! _Mom!_ Let me talk to him first!  C’mon! _Augh, Mom--’_ There was a brief muffling of what sounded like several voices and a dog at the other end, and then she returned, breathless.  

Billy covered a laugh.  

“I’m _so_ sorry--”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Byers,” Steve put in automatically, making bewildered faces at Billy.  

“I only just heard about Will’s plans, I’m so sorry, are you absolutely _sure_ your parents will be okay with it?”

Steve raised his eyebrows.  “I am _absolutely sure_ of that, yeah.”  

“Oh, good!” she sighed.  “He said he’ll just get a ride back with you tomorrow after the game, then, if you’re _sure_ you’re up for giving up your _whole weekend.”_ They could hear Will in the background yelling ‘Moooooom!’  “I’m not supposed to tell you," she whispered, "but we went _grocery shopping,_ and they had the _valentine chocolates discounted_ \--”

Billy and Steve were staring at each other as Will and his mom started giggling, fighting over the phone.  Billy bit back a grin. “All weekend _boyfriend,_ Harrington.”

Steve scrabbled at his hair.  “Jesus _christ.”_

When Mrs. Byers hung up, Steve groaned, rubbing his face.  “I’ll talk to him at school. Didn’t want to tell his mom he hadn’t actually asked.”

“We should practice,” Billy stepped closer, sliding his hands into the pockets of Steve’s jacket, and Steve took a deep breath against the warm weight of his body, tempted to let himself get shuffled over to the couch.

“He’s not coming _over,”_ Steve pulled away, stalking into the kitchen, and grabbing the bag of bread to tear off a hunk.  He tossed the bagged bread to the table. “You fucking--you _threatened a kid_ in here earlier.  I know--” he pointed, stuffing a handful of bread in his mouth, “Jesus, this is awesome.  I know you didn’t _do_ it, but what the fuck _, Billy,_ what the hell is in your head--” he stopped to chew, turning back to the cupboards.

“I was good with Will,” Billy hung back, then pulled out a chair as Steve started rattling around with jars of instant coffee and cinnamon.  “I can fucking _do_ it--”

“No, _fuck_ you, _Billy,”_ Steve caught his flinch out of the corner of his eye.  “What if I say I wanna hit my _goddamn math teacher?_ I’m gonna look over and there you are with--with a--” he frowned around, “--a broken jar at Will’s neck, yelling ‘You’ll never take me alive!’ _Fuck_ that...you want hot chocolate?”

Billy leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs on the table.  “The fuck do you care, you’re pissed as hell.”

“Yeah, I sure as hell am,” Steve raised his eyebrows.  “I thought we were--I dunno, _friends,_ maybe, I’m--I’m gonna be pissed for a _while.”_ He snorted. _“Billy.”_

Billy winced again, pulling out his lighter and flicking the lid up and down, and Steve narrowed his eyes.  “...soooo you’ll just have to get used to me being a _grouch,_ jesus.  I’m mad at you.  Ya noticed.  You fucking want hot chocolate or not?”  

“Whatever answer doesn’t piss you off _more,”_ Billy shrugged, flicking his lighter.  

“Nope.  Okay,” Steve leaned back against the sink.  “You stay here.  At--at my house, you’re _safe,_ okay, you stay here.  Use whatever you want, eat whatever, use the shower, there’s a washing machine--” he waved at the garage.  Billy clenched his fingers around the lighter, mouth quirked.  “--but. I know you apologized, I--I _kinda_ get it--” he paced around, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove, “but I’m--I can’t just--” he felt his breath catch, and leaned against the counter again, closing his eyes.  “I don’t have to--not saying I’ll be a huge prick, not gonna _yell_ at you, but I don’t have to be _sweet either,_ okay, I can _just ask_ if you want some goddamn Swiss Miss.  And get an answer.  Without a bunch of bullshit, I’m not tiptoeing around like ‘oh, my friend, would you _possibly_ want some chocolate, could I _interest_ you in a cup, _honored visitor--”_   As he waved his arms around, Billy was smothering snickers.  “It’s not a tea party, I’m not getting out the fine china--”

“Sure, I’ll take a cup,” Billy ducked his head, biting back a grin.  

Steve turned on his heel to face the table, holding a mug.  “...Billy,” he started, but Billy clenched his jaw, and Steve grimaced.  “Uh. You...um, I don’t think you like me calling you that.”

“You _don’t_ call me that,” Billy shrugged, smirking over at the refrigerator.  “I’ll get used to it.”  

“Uh, no.  Hargrove.”  Steve said instead.  “Sorry.”  

Billy swallowed, ducking his head.  His ears were red, and, unusually, his cheeks, since he’d apparently scrubbed his face at some point before Steve talked him into climbing out a window.  “I don’t think you know what being pissed off _means,”_ he muttered, and Steve stuck a leg out and pushed his chair an inch across the floor.  

“No, dipshit, I’m fucking normal! _Normal_ pissed off.  Normal pissed off means I stomp around and I don’t _fucking_ want a _blow job_ and if you’re in danger I suck it the _fuck_ up and put up with your bullshit _here.”_

“I wasn’t in _danger,”_ Billy rolled his eyes, then twitched as Steve swung around, but didn’t step closer.  

“Oh, yeah, huh?  What was that about.”  Steve flapped his fingers at his own face, nodding to Billy.  “Those bruises. Huh? Why the fuck did he grab your face?”

“...wanted to know where I’d been,” Billy whispered, watching him.

“Yeah, that is not how you ask questions, _Hargrove--”_ Billy was listening, but his eyes flickered following Steve’s hands, and Steve deflated against the counter.  “...shit. I said I wouldn’t yell at you.  Sorry.”

“That was yelling?” Billy snorted, and Steve turned away to stare into the cupboard.  

“Sorry,” he emphasized.  “Your dad _fucking_ pisses me off, but I didn’t mean to take it out on you--” he glanced over his shoulder.  “You’re a fucking asshole, but I’m just--so fucking--I’m _way_ more pissed at your dad.”

Billy laughed, shaking his head.  “You don’t even _know_ him.  He’s not--”

At that, Steve came over, hands spread.  “I don’t--I don’t goddamn need to, this--” he moved his hand slowly to cup Billy’s jaw, and ran his thumb over the bruises.  “This isn’t okay, _Hargrove._ There’s nothing _fucking_ okay about this.”  Billy blinked a few times, his eyelashes tickling Steve’s palm, and took a shaky breath, and then the kettle whistled.  Steve stepped back over to study the mugs, deciding whether Billy still needed a bird flipped at him, or whether he needed to be proclaimed _World’s Best Mom._ After searching through _I Believe In Santa Claus, I Thought You’d Like This Mug From Pennsylvania,_ and _Fill Your Day With Rainbows,_ he selected one declaring the drinker _Saving Myself For Tom Selleck._ He took the rainbow for himself.  When he turned back at ask about marshmallows, Billy had his head buried in his arms.  His neck showed red through his curls, and Steve resisted his lower torso’s urgent suggestion that he gather Billy up, haul him upstairs, and see where things went.  He gritted his teeth, dumping instant coffee and marshmallows in his mug.

“...think I solved the case of why you can’t sleep,” Billy mumbled, as Steve scooped in twice what the jar suggested.  

“I try to sleep tonight and I’ll probably call a SWAT team on Puff the Magic Dragon,” Steve sighed, plonking the mixes, spoons, marshmallows, two candy canes, and Tom Selleck mug in front of Billy.  

“What the _shit,”_ he read the mug, cheeks reddening further.  “We know _that’s_ not true.”

“Sorry, Tom Selleck, I got there first,” Steve turned back to the cupboard to hide his pink cheeks.  “We’ve got you covered if you believe in Santa, too,” he waved like Vanna White showing off a car, drawing a headcock and and a deep frown from Billy.  

“...what.”  

“There’s an ‘I Believe In Santa’ mug--” Steve started to grab it, and Billy reached out and smacked his leg.  

“I get it.  Go fucking--go turn on your mice.”

“Nah, no mice,” Steve sighed, but picked up his mug, and wandered out to the living room.  He didn’t turn on the lights. When Billy followed, narrowed eyes on the half-melted marshmallows threatening to overflow his mug, Steve was curled up in the contested corner of the couch with the clear view of the kitchen and front door.  

Billy sighed, sipping the edge of his chocolate down before gauging a foot of space between he and Steve and lowering himself carefully, tongue between his teeth as he tried not to spill his chocolate.  “So,” he glanced over.

Steve was watching the windows, wondering--again--whether constant outdoor lights would be better than motion detectors.  “Huh?” he slurped the marshmallow foam off the top of his coffee, and chewed the grit.

“No mice?” 

Steve shrugged, his eyes straying back to the windows.

“...don’t you sleep better when I’m here?  Thought that was the whole point,” Billy sucked marshmallow foam off his candy cane.  

“I did.”  The couch cushions bounced as Steve grabbed for a blanket and yanked it over, and Billy’s eyes widened at the waves in his mug.  “That was before you pulled your _bullshit_ again, so I’m _pretty damn sure_ you just make everything worse now.”

“...I can think of _another_ way to get you to sleep,” Billy glanced over.  His tongue gleamed in the light as he licked his lips.  “--I mean, it’s my fault, right. Because of...earlier?”

“Yeah, it’s your fucking fault, and I _don’t want to fuck you,_ shut up.”

Billy bit his lips and nodded, a few more times than necessary.  

“...sorry I didn’t…” Steve sighed.  “I could tell you were flipping out.  Earlier. I should’ve--”

“Nah,” Billy’s shoulders relaxed a smidge as he laughed.  “I thought I knew what was gonna happen.  Guess I _didn’t,”_ he frowned over.  “Since you’re fucking _Ste--”_

“I should’ve hauled you upstairs or something, though,” Steve shook his head, slurping more of his coffee, and considering another cup.  “Sooner.  I can usually--” he flailed a hand, “--y’know, calm you down--”

Billy was watching him talk with an expression Steve couldn’t identify in the dim light from the kitchen.  “Harrington,” he interrupted.  “I wasn’t--I can’t--think right, when I’m--like that.  It wouldn’t--I’d probably have torn your fucking head off if you tried to haul me somewhere, I think I...” 

Steve tipped his mug back for the last lumpy trickle, turning his head to lick the inside edge.  “Fwhat.”

“...you’re so _gross,”_ Billy whispered.  “How are you so fucking hot, you’re _nasty.”_

Steve rolled his eyes.  The motion detector lights hadn’t come on, which meant he probably didn’t need to wander around in the snow with a bat, but it _was_ likely to burn some energy off, and it’d be _quiet._ He hadn’t really thought about how much time he had alone until the herd of piglets started regularly invading.  He flailed to his feet, hitting Billy with the blanket. “I’m getting more coffee.” Naturally, his new asshole roommate trailed after him.  He rolled his eyes at the microwave.  

“If I hadn’t lost it with Max here, I might’ve tried to kick your ass again,” Billy sipped his hot chocolate, and Steve turned on his heel to stare at him.  

“...fucking... _fuckhead,”_ he whispered, and slammed the door to the microwave.  “I’m--going outside.”

“I mean--it wouldn’t have worked,” Billy clunked his mug on the table, trotting after him to stand in the door to the garage.  “I didn’t--you could’ve just yelled at me--”

“Are you telling me it was a good thing?  You threatening Max?” Steve grabbed the nailbat, twirling it in the air as he meandered over to the garage door opener. _If I walk toward him with the bat, he’ll lose his shit, and right now I might not care as much as I should._

“No,” Billy held his hands up, wandering _in the garage_ as the door raised, and Steve groaned.  “Come on, you stuffed me in a trunk, and _I_ got over--”

“Fuck you, no,” Steve pointed with the bat automatically, then braced it over his shoulder as Billy’s chin jerked up. _“Fuck_ you.  A bunch of _scared Goonies_ shoved you in that trunk because you nearly beat my goddamn _face_ in.  You beat me to _shit,_ you fucking--I was--” he started to gesture with both arms _and_ the bat, then let it thud firmly back onto his shoulder.  “You beat the _shit_ out of--I woke up _slurring._ You don’t get to just _scare kids_ because--because of what they did to stop you _last_ time you were a fucking psycho _._ Just--” he took a deep breath, turned to face the outdoors, and smacked the garage door opener again, ducking under it as it closed.  Billy didn’t follow him out, so he stopped to crouch, dropping the bat alongside his foot, and have a long scream into his sweatshirt.  

The air freezing the inside of his nose was a better wakeup than the coffee would have been, he figured, and far from the drifting snow reminding him of the Upside-Down, it mostly reminded him of wandering out to patrol after Billy’d showed up drunk, cracked his head on the bolt of the door, and cried in Steve’s lap over his mother.  “Euuuugh,” he groaned again, then turned back towards the house.  There probably wasn’t anymore broken glass from Billy hucking bottles at his house, he _thought,_ but he shuffled up to the door anyway, kicking the snow off the step to either side.  The door mechanism had been stiff ever since it met Billy’s skull, and he took a deep breath before throwing it open.  “Hargrove--oh.”  Billy was standing in the kitchen, half-turned _\--he’s been pacing._ Steve bit back a humourless smile.  

“Can I apologize for kicking your ass,” Billy held his hands up, eyes lowered.

“I dunno, can you?” Steve shut the door behind him, after kicking the snow off his shoes.  Billy paced around the kitchen again, and Steve took pity.  “Yeah. Sure, man, go ahead.”

“I’m--”

“Wait,” Steve opened the door to the garage.  “Lemme put this thing away--” he waggled the bat, ducked into the garage, and thought for moment about the sincerity of Billy Hargrove apologies, and how they had a tendency to sound like random begging.  He poked his head back out.  “And you don’t--I’m not gonna throw you out, or anything. If you don’t apologize.”  When he wandered back out, after grabbing some of the pile of marshmallow bags he’d bought with Max _\--god, was that today?  I feel like I’m forty-five--_ Billy was sitting at the table, flicking his lighter again.  

“Sorry I--just--sorry I attacked that kid Max likes.”

“His name’s Lucas,” Steve blinked at the rainbow and Tom Selleck mugs, clean and in the drainer.  

“Sorry I attacked you when you defended Lucas--why didn’t you use the _bat,_ it was--” he cracked his neck, grimacing.  “It was _right there.”_

“This is some apology,” Steve grabbed a mug.  

“No, I know,” Billy stopped.

Once Steve finished with the Swiss Miss, he frowned over his shoulder.  Billy had his arms over his face, mumbling.  Even his _arms_ were red.

“...almost done filling Tom Selleck with marshmallows,” Steve informed him, and Billy choked, coughing.

“You had the bat the whole time,” he groaned into his hand.

“Yeeeep,” Steve added just one more shake of marshmallows to his mug.  

“I almost _beat_ you to death and you didn’t--you didn’t use the bat.”

“Yeah, I know, I noticed that too,” Steve rolled his eyes, adding some more marshmallows.  “You don’t have any _nails in your head,_ how about that.  Might not _change_ much, actually--”

Billy drew a long shuddery breath, and then another.  “Forgot--forgot you could’ve.  M-Max had it.  But it’s _yours._ You were there with it.  You could’ve.”

“Yeah, I _could_ have,” Steve shook out some more marshmallows, and they rolled off the mound in the mug onto the counter, so he stuck his hand in the bag and clapped a handful into his mouth.  

“Shit.  The fuck am I _doing,”_ Billy leaned his head in his arms, sniffling.  His shoulders shook, and Steve rolled his eyes, shoved another handful of marshmallows in his mouth, and stepped over to knock on the table before sliding his hand up and down the back of Billy’s neck.  

“The fuck should I know,” Steve sighed, and Billy leaned against his stomach.  

“You’re not gonna hit me with the bat,” his laugh against Steve’s sweatshirt was muffled and wheezy.  “--you’re not.”

“That’s right,” Steve cocked his head, grinning, and ran his fingers along the bright-red top of Billy’s ear.  

“...shit.  I’m fucking--I’m so sorry.”  Billy cleared his throat--a couple times, because there was a lot of wet going on, as far as Steve could tell.  There was probably going to be a pool soon, dripping off the table. “Sorry you got dragged into my bullshit. Sorry I--glad you were fucking _there,_ so I didn’t _murder a kid,”_ he clenched his fists in his hair, taking a few loud breaths as he tried to speak evenly.  “Sorry I fucking--attacked you like--fucking feral--” he choked off a sob, and Steve squeezed his shoulder.  “T-too bad your--your _blue Chuck Norris banana_ didn’t eat me.” 

Steve huffed a breathless laugh, grabbing a chair and scooting close to pull Billy’s head and shoulders against his.  Billy was snickering wetly into his sleeves, and Steve rested his face against his hair, grinning. “Congrats on not getting eaten by a blue banana,” he whispered, and Billy cackled, leaning into him harder.  His sweatshirt was warm against Steve’s palm as he rubbed distractedly along Billy’s spine. “...that’s my sweatshirt.  You thought I...what, I was standing in the snow to get my _sweatshirt_ back?” 

Billy snorted, and pulled away, standing to bat at and grab a paper towel, and blow his nose.  “Nothing you do makes sense, Harrington.”

“No, it does, I mean it usually kinda does,” Steve crossed his arms as Billy shifted his weight, glancing from his chair, where he’d been leaning against Steve, to Steve’s face.  “...I don’t even wanna know what time it is--”

“We could sleep on the couch,” Billy ducked his head, doing the _thing,_ Steve thought with annoyance, where he looked up through his eyelashes, and smiled just for you.

“And let Tom Selleck stay filled with marshmallows?” he raised his eyebrows at the mug, mounded up and surrounded with the little rainbow pillows.  

“Man surely deserves a few marshmallows,” Billy stepped closer.  “I’ll stay at the other end.”

“Christ,” Steve took his hand, sliding his fingers between Billy’s.  “Your room?”

“Yes.  Yeah,” Billy nodded, grinning at their hands.

After a while of squinting at this new Billy Hargrove, wiping his eyes on his sweatshirt and getting his earring caught, blushy-eared and apparently delighted to _hold hands,_ Steve allowed himself to be drawn upstairs.  It felt like the weight of the day was finally settling on his shoulders, Billy’s fear in the restaurant, and Max’s fury, and somewhere Neil Hargrove’s malevolence weighting his eyelids.  He wondered whether he was leaving a trail of squeezed-out adrenaline on the stairs.  “Seems like it’d be neon,” he muttered, ignoring Billy’s headcock, and crawling into the middle of the bed.  

Billy hesitated at the edge of the bed.  “Probably don’t want me taking my pants off,” he prompted, glancing over, and Steve flailed a hand.  

“Get some sweatpants then night.”

He woke up to Billy crawling up next to him, and laughing.  “...you’re out already? You didn’t even get under the blankets.  Somebody cut your strings?”

“Mmm,” Steve flopped an arm over him, scooting closer, and nuzzled his face against Billy’s warm shoulder.  

“Shit,” Billy sounded hoarse again, and Steve squeezed him tighter.  “How come you’re so damn _good_ to me?”

“Shut up,” Steve mumbled, waving his other arm around to pull Billy’s head against his to make the noise stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lovelovelove hearing from people! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far!
> 
> ALSO, I'm platypan on Tumblr and peterqpan on Pillowfort! Come wail to me about stories!


	7. Advice and pillowforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about an almost entirely silly chapter? No reason to suspect my suspicious generosity. 
> 
> As far as subject goes, this one's pretty light! As for LENGTH, though, I've gotten some comments on chapter length, so fair warning--have your tea ready, a comfy spot, a length of yarn to find your way back, let your loved ones know where you are, and pack healthy rations and plenty of water--this one's long!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always @tbehartoo and @shaycora for cheerleading! 
> 
> I realized I haven't been giving specific warnings because my memory is awful, and that's crappy of me! (If you see anything I should warn for in previous chapters, lemme know, I want to go back and fix it) but this chapter I think we're pretty clear? Billy's away from his dad and got some weird coping mechanisms Steve's trying to figure out, they disagree for a lot of the chapter, but they're working on that and they're trying to be nice to each other. Pretty sweet chapter, all told.
> 
> SOME NOTES: I went back and ADDED 3K OF STEVE AND BILLY TALKING TO THE LAST CHAPTER! It's at the end, it starts in the middle of the phone conversation with Joyce. IT IS KINDA IMPORTANT TO A DISCUSSION THIS CHAPTER.
> 
> Also! Note the new chapter titles! =D

Steve jerked awake to a loud thud, and Billy’s voice from the floor next to the bed.

“Fucking _minute,_ I’m _on_ it.”

Steve groaned and rolled away, pulling the pillow over his face, and trying to breath slowly so his heart would stop pounding.  

“Just--just wait, I have to--” Billy’s voice was quieter.  “Shit, wait.  Is--Harrington?”

Steve swallowed.  His mouth was dry, and he licked the inside of it, grimacing.  “...sleeping.”  

“Did you wake me up?”  Billy sounded entirely too alert, his voice coming from somewhere below the edge of the bed.

Steve slapped his hands to his cheeks a few times, and sat up.  “Eugh.  Why are you _awake,”_ he rubbed his face.

“...thought I was home.”  The springs squeaked as the mattress shifted.  “Needed me to make a cake. Like the pink and blue one.  With the mice.”

“What?!” Steve lifted the blankets, flailing a hand in the dark to grab Billy’s arm and pull him back in the bed.  “You dreamed your dad woke you up to make a birthday cake?”

“Might have been Cinderella at the time,” Billy mumbled, letting himself collapse across Steve’s stomach.  

“You spend too damn much time weightlifting,” he wheezed, falling back on his pillows.  “God.  Ow.  Did you have mouse friends?” He tapped at Billy’s butt like it was a set of bongos.

“Shut up, Billy muttered, kicking his feet up, which put _more_ weight over Steve’s lungs.  

“You woke _me_ up,” Steve moaned. _“CinderBilly.”_

“Want me to make you a cake?” 

Steve laughed, shoving at Billy’s ribs until he rolled just enough to allow him to breathe.  “Right _now?_ Fuck yeah.”

“Fuck you,” Billy groaned into an armload of covers.  

“Cake,” Steve bent his knees, straining his abs but rolling Billy a few inches the other way.  

“You don’t want my cake,” Billy squirmed around to snicker against his shoulder.  “S’why my dad started dating again. Sick of my shitty cooking.”

Steve’s mouth fell open.  “...what an asshole.”  His stomach growled, and Billy snorted into his shoulder, but didn’t budge.  “...he really do that shit?  Wake you up in the dead of night to _cook?”_

“Nah,” Billy mumbled, breathing against his collarbones.  “Just if he needed to.  Found out about something I did.  ‘FI forgot to clean something.  Did my homework wrong.”

“He couldn’t talk about it when you were _awake?”_ Against his chest, Steve could feel Billy’s heart slowing from the same thudding hoofbeats as his own.  “Jesus.  You just...never knew what he was gonna do, did you.”  He slid his fingers up through the silky heat at the back of Billy’s head, and Billy curled closer.  “...if you’re CinderBilly, am I the prince,” Steve narrowed his eyes up through the darkness, and Billy laughed, punching his arm.  “Whoa there.” Steve grabbed both of Billy’s fists and held them, awake enough to process the danger that was Billy feeling feelings.  “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmm,” Billy yanked at his arm, and Steve shifted to hold his hand.

“Sleep, dude, you don’t have to sing and scrub the floors here.”

“That almost made _sense,”_ Billy growled into his neck, twitching so his elbow brushed Steve’s ribs.  “I know too much about your _goddamn mice,_ Harrington--” 

“Not really, the cake’s in the other one,” Steve started giggling.  “That’s the fairies, not the mice.”

 _“Fuck_ you,” he yanked his fist out of Steve’s hand, gripping his shirt instead.  “So much wrong with you.”

His warm weight felt like it was directly affecting Steve’s eyelids.  “Yeah, Nancy hates ‘em.” Steve could feel Billy’s laughter warming his neck, the ribs against him shaking with it.  “She yells at them too, she said if the fairy couldn’t turn the evil stepmom into a mouse, she wasn’t very good at her job.”  

 

The next morning, Steve swore _again_ to stop sleeping in his clothes--the down comforter was like a cloud around them, but his jeans had sandpapered a line around his waist and down his inner thighs, and his crotch felt like a crumpled brown paper bag--but Billy’s back was warm against his chest, so he squeezed tighter, his face heating at the startled “Oof.”  

“How you doin’?” he asked, nuzzling the sweaty curls, and Billy squirmed against him.  

“Shit, for somebody who doesn’t want my dick, you sure spend a lot of time waking it up,” he groaned.  

Steve narrowed his eyes, checking the time, then sighed.  “We better get up, though, I need a shower.”

“Fuck you,” Billy mumbled, rolling onto his face.  “Shit.  God.  Bet you don’t even have food.”

“I’ve got Eggos,” Steve folded his arms behind his head instead of sliding one up between Billy’s shirt and his side, and smoothing it along his ribs.  He cleared his throat, and swung his legs out of bed, standing to stretch.  

“Eggos aren’t _food,_ Harrington,” Billy groaned again, into the comforter.  “Have you got _eggs._ Fucking...cereal, even?”

“Did you _buy_ any cereal?  I have no idea what goes in bread,” Steve asked in innocent tones, and Billy sat up with an open-mouthed glower, before he saw Steve’s grin and growled.  Steve wandered to the door, planning to at least change into pants that weren’t trying to replace his flesh. “Look, we can get McMuffins.”

“Also not food,” Billy rubbed his face.

“I think there’s Kraft dinner,” Steve waggled his eyebrows, and Billy started hucking pillows as he closed the door.  

He kept his shower brief, imagining Billy slamming around his kitchen, ripping the cabinet doors off in a rage and biting them in half. _I’ve seen too many monster movies,_ he reflected, working in his shampoo.  When he wandered out in a towel to rummage through his drawers--the slacks he’d worn to try and look classy for Nancy were softer than his jeans, he thought, probably, crouching to run his hands over a row of folded pants, all scientific-like--he could smell the beginnings of food again.  He almost slid down the stairs in his stocking feet, yanking the slacks on, t-shirt in hand, to stick his face in whatever Billy was doing.  

“I’ll clean up,” Billy called up as the stairs creaked, and Steve vaulted the last four stairs, sliding up next to him at the stove.  “After we eat, so it doesn’t get cold.  If your _gleaming counters_ can handle my filth that long--all you have are _eggs._ The eggs you bought for _bread.”_

Steve leaned his chin on Billy’s shoulder, whispering “Hey, little woman, can I get a sandwich,” and Billy hipchecked him away to lean against the counter.  “That smells good.  Why don’t you leave the dishes, and I’ll get ‘em tonight?”

“...if you really don’t care,” Billy eyeballed him, then, inexplicably, reddened again.  “Shit,” he rubbed his face, turning away.  

Steve blinked, then pulled his shirt on, grinning.  “Need any help?”  

“Get some plates,” Billy muttered, “Get some more bread on ‘em.”

“Yep,” Steve busied himself finding a bread knife, then settled for a steak one--Billy groaned--and rummaged for a cutting board.  “...you don’t have to watch me the _whole time,_ I’m old enough to play with scissors,” he shot over his shoulder after catching _yet another_ glance from Billy.  

“You’re fucking _not,”_ Billy stepped over to slide both arms around him, pulling the steak knife away.  He was warm and solid against Steve’s back, and Steve grinned, letting his head loll back against Billy’s shoulder as he listened to everything in the drawer banging together.

“Why do you keep _knives_ in your _kitchen drawer_...you aren’t even paying attention,” Billy huffed into his hair, and Steve laughed, feeling his cheeks heat.  

He lifted his head to see a longer, _scarier-_ looking knife.  “Okay, okay, why do I need a huge _\--saw.”_

“It won’t squish the bread,” Billy whispered against his ear, and Steve rolled his eyes, sliding his arms back around Billy’s waist, and leaning forward to lift his toes off the ground.  Billy laughed, grabbing him around the shoulders, and leaned to lick his ear.  “You want me to ride you, cowboy?”

“Fuck no,” Steve lowered him back down, his whole face hot as he felt Billy’s dick hard against his ass.  

Billy shoved away, opening the fridge and staring into it.  

“Uh,” Steve swallowed, rubbing his face.  “Sorry.”

“Eggs are almost done,” Billy just stood there with the fridge open.

“No, really, sorry I keep--I don’t wanna fuck with you.”

“Yeah, I _got_ that,” he slammed the fridge, keeping his back to Steve as he slid back over to the stove.  

Steve cringed, and started sawing at the bread, stuffing the crooked bits in his mouth.  It was just as good as it’d been the night before, fluffy and sweet against his tongue, yellow with eggs and butter.  He placed the nicest slices on Billy’s plate.  

“Sorry,” Billy grunted, turning to grab a plate and shuffle two sunny-side-up eggs onto it.

“No, it’s--”

“I don’t--I don’t know what you want, you keep--” he sighed, handing over the plate.  “Shit.”

“It’s my fault too, I keep grab--”

“This egg’s all squished up,” Billy stood holding the other plate.  “Look, it’s like me, completely _fucking_ unappealing.”

“What,” Steve tried to say, around his mouthful.  

“Did you finally _notice,”_ the drawer rattled as Billy slammed it open, grabbing a fork.  

“Notiff wha,” Steve asked, chewing the egg off the edge of his plate, and waving his hand for a fork.  

Billy rolled his eyes, sliding one across the table.  “Fuck if I know,” he poked at his plate.  “Fucking...Mark of Cain, I don’t know, whatever the fuck _everyone sees_ about _Billy Fucking Hargrove.”_

Steve swallowed, leaning his chair back on two legs to frown at the clock.  “Wait, what?” He slurped down the rest of the eggs, tipping his chair upright, and got up to slide the plate in the sink with one hand, and pull Billy against him with the other.  “C’mere, no.”

“Stop petting me, I’m not a goddamn dog,” Billy let himself tip against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve raised his eyebrows, bracing his feet.  

“You’re hot as hell,” he said against Billy’s hair, trying to keep his tone businesslike.  “Can--can I kiss you, if I don’t wanna fuck you.”

“Fuck _yes,”_ Billy yanked him against the sink, sliding his arms around Steve’s neck, and laughing so his breath warmed Steve’s lips.  His gaze flicked from Steve’s mouth to his eyes, then dropped again.  “Do it.  Maybe you’ll change your--”

“No. _Dude.”_ Steve leaned his head away.  “Shit. Come on, we’re gonna be late.  Can I _just kiss_ you.”

“You can do whatever the fuck you want,” Billy muttered, but leaned in to Steve’s press of lips with a soft noise in the back of his throat.  His grip on Steve’s shoulder and in his hair was nearly painful, and Steve wrapped both arms around him and leaned back a bit, lifting him off the floor again.  Billy laughed against his mouth, hot and eager, and Steve lost himself in the weight of Billy’s muscled body against him, the lingering taste of cigarettes and tequila behind the toothpaste, and the zing down his spine towards his dick. 

“Crap, we’ll be late,” he got one more kiss in, pulled away from the slight stickiness of Billy’s fruity chapstick, ran to grab his bag, and then dashed back into the kitchen to find Billy with his head on the counter, wrapped in his arms.  “...you okay there, Hargrove?”

“Fantastic,” Billy pushed off the counter and grabbed Steve’s jacket, grinning as he linked their arms like Steve was escorting him to the ballroom.  

Steve hauled him in close to get through the door to the garage, and ended up pressed to the doorframe, with Billy’s mouth on his again.  He didn’t comment on the tequila flavor. “...don’t think I’ve ever seen you in such a good mood,” Steve mumbled around the soft kisses, and Billy laughed against his jaw, kissing along the patchy stubble he’d intended to shave.

“You like me so much better with my mouth on you,” he went to lick into Steve’s mouth again, and Steve pushed him back.

“What--no I fucking don’t.”

Billy jerked away and walked over to the car.  “You fucking do, just let me--” he rubbed his face, leaning against the door as Steve clicked the garage door opener and climbed in his car, then slid in the passenger side.  “Come on, Harrington, just--you know it’d put you in a better mood--”

“You think I’m in a _bad mood,”_ Steve started the engine and pressed the gas harder than he intended, rocking them both forward as they shot back into the driveway.  Billy’s hands clenched white on his knees.  Steve clicked the garage door closed, and took a deep breath.  “I’m not in a _bad mood,_ I’m _fucking pissed off._ I’m not going to _like you more_ if we’re fucking.  Or _kissing._ Hargrove.”

“Yeah,” Billy’s voice croaked.

 _Yes, sir,_ Steve heard, and bit his lips together, turning on to the road.  He slid his hand over to squeeze Billy’s. _The fuck do I say._ He ran his thumb over the side of Billy’s hand.  “I’m not any _more_ mad at you...” he tried, and Billy snorted.  “Okay, I kinda am,” he groaned, and Billy huffed a laugh.  “--but it’s just--it’s not--I’m mad you think I--you--” he growled in frustration, leaning to see around the turn onto the bigger street.

“That was clear as mud,” Billy cocked his head at their hands, and turned his palm up, and Steve flashed a grin at him.

“I don’t like you more when we hold hands, either--” Billy snatched his hand back, looking away, but Steve kept his where it was.  “But maybe it--makes you feel better, kinda, if we--if I still like you enough to hold hands?  When I’m mad?”

“You’re making no sense again,” Billy smacked his hand back over Steve’s.  “You fucking--you want to touch me or don’t you.”

“I _want_ to, jesus,” The heater hadn’t really engaged, and Billy’s fingers were cold.  Steve squeezed them. “I just--I don’t want to fuck you, and--and have you think that’s--that that’s why you didn’t get hit.” 

Billy laughed, ducking his head.  “The hell does that mean. I’m not--I’m not _brainwashing_ you with my cock, I’m just--”

“No, listen,” Steve squeezed his hand.  “You want me to let you keep staying with me.  You want me to like you, so that--so I keep being nice to you.  Right?”

“Not rocket science,” Billy frowned at his face, then returned to studying their hands.

“But I don’t--I don’t _have_ to _like_ you.  You can stay as long as you--”

 _“Fuck_ you, Harrington,” Billy yanked his hand away again, folding his arms.  “You were the one all ‘I thought we were friends’--fine.  I’ll stay in my goddamn lane.”

“No, shit, wait, that’s not--”

“Goodie, we’re here,” Billy opened the door just as Steve turned into the parking lot.  Steve slammed the brakes as the door swung wide, and Billy grabbed his bag, and climbed out.  “See you.”  

 

Steve found a parking spot and groaned with his face against the wheel.  He looked up at a knock on his window to see Nancy, eyebrows drawn inquiringly, and opened his door.  “Nancy,” he flapped a hand behind his seat for his bag. “Morning. You remember that time I was sick and we watched soaps for a week,” he felt the strap slide between his fingers, and yanked, letting the force propel him onto his feet out of the car.  

She wrinkled her nose.  

“I’m _living_ in one.”

She bit her lips together, suppressing a snort.  “Oh no, Steve,” she waved her hands, and he huffed at her obvious insincerity, “Were you kidnapped and replaced by a clone, who was murdered and disguised as a pinata for a child’s birthday party?”

“Uh, ha, no.”

“Did you try to frame your crush for murder by poisoning fish fingers with WD-40, before being locked in the walk-in freezer where you set your deadly trap?” she asked, wide-eyed, and he snickered.  

“Shut up, no!”

“Was your entire life dreamed up by your dog?” she rolled her eyes.  “The dog you _don’t have,_ probably, _maybe,_ maybe you got _amnesia_ when your foot slipped in _spilled milk_ and you _forgot your dog--”_

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.  “I’m so sorry I made you watch them.  Why did you listen to me? I was so high off Dimetapp--”

"I wasn't leaving you with your parents gone," she rolled her eyes.  "All alone, while you kept thinking I was Purdue Pete?"

He blinked.  "The...mascot for the Boilermakers?"  She nodded, eyebrows raised, and he moaned into his hand.  "Jesus christ, no wonder you dumped me."

"I got a real education that week," She covered her mouth in simulated horror, walking backwards ahead of him.  “Did you find out Billy is not, in fact, your possessed brother after all, but your _mother,_ visiting from the _past?”_ She made jazz hands.  “Is the moustache her _disguise?_ Noooooo!”

“Oh my god,” he cackled, leaning against the classroom doorway, in an attempt to breathe. _“No.”_

There was a substitute teacher, so Nancy sat next to him in the back, edging their desks together as the sub struggled with the reel-to-reel film projector.  

She leaned in again.  “Did the orangutan you hired to nurse your secretly insane and captive mother fall in love with you, and throw the pictures of you she’d cherished off the train as she journeyed to forget her love for you that was never meant to be,” she whispered, and he buried his face in his bag, wheezing.  “Did he leave you tied to a motorcycle, covered in honey, hoping you’d get killed by a bear?”

“No!  He might.  But no!” He grinned over at her, watching her tap her notebooks straight on the desk before sitting them in a tidy stack, and check her pencils for lead.  Once the movie started up, she leaned closer.  

“Okay, spill.”

“Now?!” he frowned around.  The closest person was asleep three seats away, the kids closest to the teacher’s desk were playing poker for Skittles, and the sub was flat on the desk with her parka over her head.  “Oh.  Uh.” He cleared his throat, swallowing. “So.  Mr. Hargrove.  He’s--worse than I thought--”

Her eyes widened.  “How could he be _worse,”_ she hissed back.

“I know!  He’s a fucking asshole, he called _me_ up and told me if I hung out with his son I’d die in jail, basically, Billy’s all bruised up, he’s got, like, fingermarks--” he wrapped his hand around his face, pressing in, and she grimaced.  “--he’s not letting him get a _job,_ or--or _sleep,_ or use the _phone,_ or leave town--if he drives anywhere that isn’t school his dad calls the cops on him--he won’t let him get his car fixed, so he’s _stuck_ there all the time--”

“Jesus, Steve.”

“--but Billy’s a _mess_ over it, he thought I was mad yesterday, he and Max, they--they really thought I was gonna _kill_ him, not like--” he waved his hand, “--you and I mean it, ‘he’s gonna kill me’, y’know--” she nodded.  “He--he tried to start a fight last night and I got mad and threw him in the garage--”

She leaned to look him over.  “Are you _okay?”_

“I’m fine!” he whispered back, “--now, I mean.  But I did my--I kind of--freaked out, y’know, and went and stared in the bathroom mirror for a while and sat on the floor in there--”

A muscle worked in her jaw as she gripped her pencil.  

“And when I came out Max said Billy’d gone _home--”_

“Nooo,” she said again, sincerely this time, and he nodded, covering a laugh.  

“Yes!  Right, thank you!” he whispered back. _“Noooo!”_  

“Is--is he at school today?  Did you talk to him?  Is he--”

“I, uh,” he dropped his face in his hands.  

“Steve,” she bumped his shoulder with hers.  

“Y’know how you need to murder me because I’m stupid,” he mumbled through his fingers.

“You didn’t go yell at his _dad,”_ she grabbed his arm, and he shook his head.

“Not that kinda stupid.  I...went to his house...and told him to pack and come back with me?”  He cringed over, as she cocked her head.  “I crept around the back of his house and threw _snowballs_ at his _window.”_

She clapped her hand over a squeak, glancing up towards the front of the class.  “You did the balcony scene.”

“No, it wasn’t funny, he kept asking if I brought my nail bat,” he ran his hands through his hair, slumping.  “He only came because he thought Max was gonna tell and get him in trouble if he stayed.  It’s so shitty.  He keeps trying to figure out what pisses me off.”

Her lips thinned.  “That sounds awful for _both_ of you.”

“It’s so bad!  He kissed me this morning and then said he wanted to keep kissing me because I like him better that way!”  

She frowned, cocking her head.  “Don’t you?”

“No!” he said, too loud, and the parka over the teacher twitched. _“No,”_ he whispered.  “I don’t want him--he’s trying--he thinks if he keeps me happy, I won’t _hurt_ him, imagine if--if Mike--or _Will,_ or _El_ said they’d do whatever we wanted to keep us happy, kept trying to--to do stuff for us because they were scared--”

“Eugh,” she sat back in her seat, eyes wide.  “Do you even know if he...didn’t he _start_ coming over because of his dad?  Does he even _want_ to--”

“See!  You get it!” he hissed back, leaning his head on his hand.  “I _think_ he’s into it, but Max said--” _Wait, none of her business, really--_ “Uh, Max kinda said he’s done it before, had a relationship with somebody to get himself out of the house.  Not--romantic,” he made a face at the implications behind Billy and his “deliveries.”

She covered a grimace, leaning her face on her hand.  “Is this even...I mean, do you even _...like_ him?  Does it _matter?_ I mean it matters that he’s out of his dad’s house, don’t get me wrong, but--” she spread her hands, “--can’t he just...get a job now, or go back to California--can’t you just _\--not kiss him,_ ever again?”

“I.”  he frowned at the screen, folding his arms.  

“Steve.”  Her eyes narrowed.

“Uh.  Yeah, of course.”  He ran his fingers through his hair, swallowing.  “Obviously. I mean, it’s Billy Hargrove, I shouldn’t _be_ kissing him.  Ever.  In the first place.”

“So why _did_ you?” she cocked her head.  “I’ve got soap operas on the brain, now, tell me it wasn’t for undercover work.  Did you think he was your long lost--”

 _“Ha,_ uh," he cut her off.  "No.”  He turned face-front to watch the film, clearing his throat.  “He, uh, he kissed me.  In--first.  He kissed me first.”

“...that was pretty obvious, I thought,” she leaned forward to see his face.  “--but you didn’t _...stop_ him.”

“Shut up,” Steve leaned his chin on his bag.  

“...annnnnnd you don’t want to date anyone else.”

“No, it’s just--this whole monster thing,” Steve rolled his eyes, dropping back in the seat and crossing his arms.

“That is a problem, but _Steve._ Billy Hargrove doesn’t know _either.”_

“...no, I, uh, I actually--I told him.  Everything.  Most things.  I didn’t tell him about Eleven, I didn’t know if she’d want him to--”

 _“Steve,”_ she hissed.  

“I had to get him to climb out the window!  He wanted to know what I’d been hitting with a nailbat!”  The dude two rows up with the heart sunglasses, who’d been snoring when they started talking, lifted his head and gave them a long look.  Steve dropped his voice.  “It got him out the window.  Sort of.  He still thinks--ugh.  He thinks a lot of--bullshit.”

“Well, that’s a given,” she wrinkled her nose.  “Your parents are out of town _again?”_

“Yeah,” he shrugged.  

“So you don’t even have to see him, he can stay in the other room--”

“Yeah, uh.”

“...wha--”

“He keeps cooking me _breakfast,”_ he let his head loll back, sliding down in his seat.  “He watches stupid cartoons with me.  We’re--” he swallowed his sentence, deciding on the fly that _we’re sleeping in the same bed, and I like it,_ was more than Nancy needed to know.  “I don’t...hate it.”

“...yeah, that’s what I’m hearing,” she was squinting at him, mouth quirked.

“I don’t want him to think I stopped making out with him because he…” he opened his mouth, closed it, steepled his hands, and blew through his fingers.  “He’s a fucking _mess,_ I just…”

“So don’t, then.”  She waved her hands.  “Or do?  Can you like--tell him what you’re telling me?”

“‘Can’t kiss you, you’re a fucking mess?’”

“That’s perfect,” she rolled her eyes.  “‘I don’t hate it’ was great too, write that down, I’m sure we saw that in some really heart-rending proposals.  It’s definitely in Romeo and Juliet.”

His cheeks flamed. _“What does Romeo and Juliet have to do with anything.”_

“Sorry,” she rolled her eyes, hissing back. _“Mercutio and Tybalt,_ then.”

“What?!” he mouthed.

“Is this the soap opera part?  He’s gonna drive off and you’ll like.  Lasso a horse.  ‘Billy!  I don’t hate you!  Come back!’”

Steve muffled a snort.  “Shut up!  I’m not gonna say anything!”

“You sure?  Even though you _want_ to kiss him?  For some reason?”

“...he doesn’t get it.  He thinks I’m just…”  He wrinkled his nose.  “He thinks I’m pretending he’s _you._ Jesus.  The whole time.  I mean, my own _hand_ would be better than a _dude_ with a _moustache_ to--”

“Yeah, stop there,” she held up a hand.  “Gross.  Ew. _Steve.”_

He smirked.  “You asked.”

“I did _not.  Eugh._ Do you _care_ what he thinks?”

“No,” he folded his arms.  “I don’t give a shit.  Come on, Nancy.”

“So you definitely shouldn’t talk to him,” she sighed gustily, the noise covered by the slightly off-center clacking of the film projector, and the narrator mispronouncing ‘dude’ as ‘dooday’.  The two people watching snickered.  

“Talk to him about what,” Steve muttered.  “Thought you _wanted_ him gone.”

“Yeah, I’d love to see him shoved in a post office bin marked ‘return to sender’,” she snorted.  “And shit, I’m trying real hard to be patient, Steve, with my _ex_ going ‘Oh no, he misunderstands when I kiss him, he makes me breakfast, I sleep better _beside_ him, he watches my dumb cartoons--’”

“...that doesn’t sound like me,” Steve said on autopilot, eyes wide as his brain furnished evidence otherwise.  “I--I didn’t say all that.  Exactly.”

“Why are you having this conversation with _me,”_ she groaned.  “Why do you even _want_ him?”

 _You’ve never seen him happy,_ he didn’t say.  “That--the--with Will.  He’s--he’s good with him.  And it’s not just--” _He sleeps on me, and it’s just--sleeping, it’s just--I’ve never done that._ “Um.”  _I flipped my shit and he tried to make me hot chocolate and show me cartoons._ “He--uh, he makes bread.” _I think...he wants to be friends, maybe._

She turned to squint at him for a long second, then bit her lips, reached over, and patted his hand.  “Did you tell Hopper about...everything?”

“I did!” he sighed, leaning back to join her in staring past the screen. Now that his brain had got rolling, it was hard to get it to stop. _Makes sense he’d want me happy, he just doesn’t want me throwing him out._   “I mean, not the--I didn’t tell him about the kissing.” 

She shook her head.  “Yeah, no.”

“But he’s keeping an eye on Max, and they won’t pick Billy up and take him home all the time anymore.”  

The PSA on the _Radical Unhipness Of Smoking_ carried on, and Nancy sighed.  “How’s this gonna work, Steve?  He’s just gonna live with you?  You said you _fought_ again?”

“Yeah, I mean, he didn’t swing at me or anything,” he hugged his bag.  “I...kinda told him I’d give him some money.  To get out of town.” _I mean, it’s not like I’m_ using _my college fund._

 _“Steve,”_ she stared over.  “Money from...your parents?  That seems like _such_ a bad idea.”

“It’s that or he _lives in my house!”_ He dropped his face against his school bag, smacking the bridge of his nose into the edge of a textbook, and swore loudly enough that the substitute raised up under her coat like a monster from the deep.  Steve pressed both hands to his face as his eyes teared up.  “Nancy, help, I’m so stupid my backpack just punched me in the face.”

“Oh, Steve.”  She patted his shoulder, and he groaned.  “Let me know if--if there’s anything I can do.  I could run his dad over, maybe,” she leaned her chin on her elbow, gazing into the distance between her and the screen.  

“Might end up taking you up on that.”  Steve touched his nose, grimacing.

 

After second period, Steve’s teacher pulled him aside, congratulating him on paying attention in class _\--Wow,_ he nearly laughed, _their expectations are so low--_ and asked if he could stay after school.  So did his third period teacher.  And fourth.  When Max and Eleven ambushed him as he ate lunch, and asked for a ride to the arcade and then home after school, he winced.  “Uh. I gotta stay after.” They frowned at each other.

“We can’t really get a ride from Jonathan and not invite Will,” Max shrugged.

“We could walk,” Eleven clenched her fists and bounced like she was going to shoot off from the ground.  

“What if,” Steve grimaced, “--this is probably too stupid.”

“Probably.  Go on,” Max raised her eyebrows.

“What if I give Billy my keys?  Eleven can keep him in line.”

“What, _really,_ Steve, _already,”_ Max smacked his arm.

“I think he would do it,” Eleven nodded.  “He takes me for waffles.”

“What,” Max stared at her.  “Wait, he did?!  When--”

“We could get _waffles,”_ Eleven nodded.  “And then the arcade.”

Steve was trying not to giggle.  His eyes stung.  “Yeah, here, take my keys, ask him.  If he says no, you can always walk to the arcade and I’ll pick you up tonight.”

“Why the hell--why don’t we just do _that,_ you can pick us up later _\--”_ Max sighed.  “He just doesn’t want me walking home in the snow in the dark, it's not--”  

“They have strawberry syrup,” Eleven coaxed, and Max glanced between her and Steve.  

“He’s been a real sack of shit lately, El,” Steve went to tuck his keys back in his pocket, but Max held her hand out for them, sighing.  He frowned at her.  “Don’t steal my car _yourself.”_

“We can ask.  If he’s a shitbird about it, we’ll wait for you.”  

El frowned, crossing her arms, but listened.

Steve dug out his wallet, and some fives.  “Here, take some--” 

Max laughed, stuffing them in the pocket of her plaid shirt.  “Thanks, _Dad.”_

He raised his eyebrows.  “You were gonna try and make Billy treat?”

 _“I_ get an _allowance,”_ she linked elbows with El, but winked at him as they ran off.

Billy must not have been more than usually obnoxious, because when Steve made it out to the parking lot--finally--his car wasn’t there. _Dustin_ was, flat on his back across a picnic table, with a pen in his mouth, analyzing a textbook.  Steve dropped to sit on the bench, and Dustin grinned, stuffing his homework away.  “Gimme a ride to the game tonight?”

Steve glanced around.  “Assuming my car comes back, yeah.”

“Your car,” Dustin raised his eyebrows.  “You let it wander off?  You got a fucking...migratory car, Steve?”  He beamed over.  “Where’d it _go?”_

“Uh,” Steve leaned back against the table, looking at the sky. _At least it stopped snowing._ “Billy’s got it.  Probably taking Max home.” _Unless Max stole it.  Also likely._

“...like, _hours_ ago,” Dustin rolled onto his stomach, leaning off the table to frown at his face.  “...sooooo. Billy.”

“What?” Steve sighed, rubbing his face.  

“Billy Hargrove,” Dustin prodded his shoulder.  “You’re what...friends now?  He knows _I’m_ your best bestie, right.  He better not fuck with that.  I’ll bite him.  Pin him to the ground like a K-9 cop.”  He gnashed his teeth, giggling.  “I can _do_ that now.”

Steve snorted, coughing.  “Don’t fight over the friendship bracelets.”

“So?”

“So what,” Steve turned to look at him, and sighed at the slight grin and raised eyebrows.  

“He’s what, okay now?  I don’t see any bruises.”  

Steve rolled his eyes.  “Not gonna hang out with…” _Wait, no, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing,_ he pinched the bridge of his nose. _Hanging out with somebody who beat me until I couldn’t say words._

“Steve,” Dustin slapped his bookbag.  “Planet Earth, calling Steve Harrington.  Come in, Steve Ha--”

 _“This_ is Planet Harrington, detecting alien life form.  Aiming lasers.” He grabbed Dustin’s notepad, rolled it, and made machiney noises, staring through, and Dustin wailed in anguish.  

“No!  No!  This alien comes in peace!  PEACE! AUUUGH!”  From the parking lot, a guitar riff wailed, backing up their action scene, and switched off.

“Vrrrrt!” Steve waggled his fingers at him, and Dustin went into death throes, and then stopped, grinning past Steve’s elbow.  

Steve swung around to see Billy standing there with his eyebrows raised.  He tossed the keys, and Steve caught them, frowning back up to see him hunching into his sweatshirt and stalking away.  “Wait.  Hargrove.”  He waved at Dustin to sit back down, and trotted after Billy.

“What, _Harrington,”_ he rubbed his face, shivering.

“Where you going?”

“Jumped my car.  Do you...are you still...”

“Oh, good,” Steve rubbed his arms.  “Call around and figure out where you can take it, I’ve got a credit card I can give them--” Billy nodded, closing his eyes for a second, and Steve folded his arms to keep himself from pulling him in by the sweatshirt.  “Want a ride?”

“Don’t think I’ve got any _pretending to be a person_ left in me tonight,” Billy snorted.  

Steve blew in his cupped hands.  “Oh, okay, right. I can drop Dustin home.”

“...what?” Billy frowned behind them--a little vaguely, and Steve resisted the urge to grab his shoulder.

“You been drinking?”

“No,” Billy ducked his head, folding his arms, and leaned against a tiny beige VW Rabbit.  “Just tired, shit.  Lemme go.”

“I’ll pick you up some dinner, okay?” Steve took a step back, trying not to block him in.

“...what?” 

“God, you’re wrecked, you should sack out when you get back.  Come on, you can just hide in the back seat--Mike’s game’s tonight, put up with me for a few hours and you’ll have the whole night to yourself.”

A brown van swerved up next to them and braked in a shower of silt and slush, not even bothering to find a parking space, and Billy grunted, shielding his face.  “Not really in a hurry to get _home,_ Harrington.”

“Jesus, Hargrove, you’re soaked.” Steve reached out, saw Billy’s expression, and held his hands open and away.  “Lemme be backup at your dad’s, come on.  We can hit the drive-through, or did you get waffles?” Steve wished he’d hauled Billy somewhere more private, away from Dustin’s curious stare--where he could yank him close--then remembered about ninety reasons that wasn’t a good idea.  It was hard to keep track, though, of why he shouldn’t kiss Billy, when he was dripping snowmelt and gravel, and his shoulders shivered up around his ears.  The dry bits of his sweatshirt looked soft, and Steve’s fingers itched to clench in it and yank him close.  “I _really_ don’t want you freezing solid, or getting your head caved in, come on, let me give you a ride, okay?”

“...you’re hanging out with one of your...your hatchlings,” Billy growled, pushing himself off the car, and brushing the snow off his butt.  His jeans were dark and wet from the knees down, and now most of his seat.

“Yeah, but you being _safe_ is more important,” Steve said slowly, watching his face, which went blank, like when he was furious, or when he was listening to his dad.  “Hargrove.  Will you come back to the car?”

Billy turned to face the other way, taking a long breath, then turned back.  “...he’s not even home--and I need a fucking _walk._ Or something.  Smoke.”

“I’ll see you at my house, though?”  

“Yeah, later.”  Billy bit his lips, frowning at his shoes, glanced up, and then down again, kicking his feet in the slush.  “Am I dismissed, or what.  Do I need to _report in.”_ He shoved by, splashing in the half-melted snow.

“Hargrove!” Steve caught up, trying to lean and see Billy’s face.  “What the fuck. What’s got you all--did something happen?”

 Billy laughed, breathing into his hands.  “I’m just--I’m such a dumb _fuck,”_ he whispered.  “Send me out with the _kids._ How’d I do on the test, Harrington?  You call your girlfriend at IHOP to make sure I didn’t murder everyone?”

 _It’s so hard not to just_ grab _him when he’s like this--_ “What?  No--” 

Billy’s hands shook as he wiped his face on his sleeves.  “I’m not fucking _\--forgiveable,_ fine, I knew you wouldn’t decide to--or did--did I fuck up somehow?  What’d I do, Harrington, they _fucking thanked_ me--”

“No!  No, jesus, _thank you,_ by the way.  Again. Thanks for taking them.”  Steve tried not to feel too guilty--it _had_ been a test, of sorts, after all, and if Eleven hadn’t felt the need to break Billy’s fingers, he’d probably passed just fine.  “I just couldn’t take them, and they wanted to go. Don’t freak out, they just wanted waffles. _Thank you.”_

“Yeah.  Sure.” Billy turned away again, and Steve elected to let him stalk off rather than chase him down again and pressure him about meals.  He brushed the van-silt off his jacket as he wandered back to Dustin, who swung his legs around and sat up. 

“What was he _doing_ with your _car,_ Steve.  What if there’s a body in the trunk.  What if he used it in a hold-up.  What if somebody dropped ice cream on his shoe, and he beat them to death with your tire jack. _Steve.”_ He grabbed the keys from Steve’s hand, running around the car to press his face against the back windows, and open the trunk, then slid in the driver’s seat while Steve was still frowning at the ground, thinking about dumb Billy Hargrove.  “Hey.  Earth to Steve.  I’m driving.”

“No.”  Steve shook his head, rubbed his face, and wandered over.  “Get out. No bodies?”

“He left some music in here,” Dustin held up a handful of cassettes, climbed out, and peered after Billy, who was just turning out of sight down the snowy sidewalk.  “Must have dumped the bodies and cocaine somewhere else.  Think he stole your sweatshirt to cover the blood?”  

“Shit, that _was_ my sweatshirt,” Steve glared.  “It was still fuzzy inside, too.”

“Welp,” Dustin shrugged, sliding in the backseat and reclining with a long sigh, “A wolverine stole it, he’s gonna nest in it--”

“I actually threw it at his face earlier--”

“Well, you don’t want it back _now,_ it’ll smell like a drunk barfed up cigarette butts.”

Steve rolled his eyes.  “Oh come on, he smells _good._ Ish.  Usually.”

“...Billy Hargrove smells good,” Dustin repeated in a flat voice.  “Steve.  Your nose is broke.  He smells like an alley behind four neighboring bars.”

“Not after a _shower._ ”  Steve started the engine, and paused, frowning over his shoulder at the parked brown van filling most of his rearview mirror.  He slowly eased the car a few inches back, turning to shove Dustin’s head down.  “I mean, he wears cologne, he’s got nice shaving cream.  Fancy curl shampoo.  Leather jacket.  Y’know what, he _washes,_ maybe it’s a California thing, you wouldn’t know about it.  What the hell is with this _van._ Asshole.”  

“...uh _-huh,”_ Dustin leaned between the seats to squint at him, then smacked the back of his seat.  “After a _shower._ Why were you--”

“I thought starting with _hair-stylin’_ tips was enough, didn’t know I needed to explain _showers,”_ Steve snickered, backing a few inches, spinning the wheel, and pulling forward a couple as Dustin kicked his seat, laughing.  “Get down so I can see, this asshole behind us just abandoned a van--”

“Shut the hell up, I shower!  So.  Uh.  Steve, um, what’s _...Tommy_ smell like?”

“How the hell should I know, probably…” Steve adjusted the side mirror, his tongue sticking out in concentration and distaste.  “Uh, sweaty basketball jerseys, I guess, and whatever _Carol_ smells like, maybe...Juicy Fruit gum.”  He cranked the wheel around, grimaced into the mirror, and pulled forward again.  

“Whatever, huh?  What about Barb.”

 _“Barb,”_ Steve reversed again, leaning around to look out the back, but stopped to frown at him.  “I never got close enough to smell _Barb.”_ His now several-point turn slid them silently past the bumper of the van, and he threw his arms in the air and whooped.  “He shoots, he scores!”  

“Mmm _hm._ Nerd.”  Dustin reached around to poke his shoulder.  “Annnnnnd what’s _Nancy_ smell like?”

“Don’t be gross,” Steve rolled his eyes, and on out of the parking lot.  “Why the hell do you care.”

“It’s for science, Steve, go on.”

“You know, those awful candles her mom burns, clean laundry, strawberry lipgloss--this is nasty, shut up, I’m not telling you what my ex-girlfriend smells like.”

Dustin leaned forward between the seats, beaming, and Steve eyed him warily in the rearview mirror.  “I think I reeeeeealized somethiiiiing,” he sang, dragging out the words, and digging his chin into Steve’s shoulder.

“What!?  Put a seatbelt on, you fucking gremlin.”

“Holy _jesus,_ are you _listening_ to yourself right now, lordy.  Steve Harrington has gone where no man has gone before,” Dustin shuddered, then surged up alongside Steve’s face again.  “What’s _Nancy_ think of--oh my _god,_ she _totally knows,”_ he collapsed back on the seat with a thump, his legs kicking up.  

“The fuck is wrong with you today,” Steve had been considering drive-through burgers, but a straightjacket was sounding more useful.

“Oh my god, D&D, I just--I just--” Dustin shrieked, voice muffled, then punched Steve’s seat.  _“That’s_ what was going on--you _asshole fuckhead.  I’m_ supposed to be your best friend.”

“What,” Steve sighed, pulling in to McDonald’s, and taking satisfaction in ordering cheeseburgers when Dustin was yelling for quarter-pounders, and a black coffee when he wanted a chocolate shake.

“You’re such a dick,” Dustin settled back, betrayed.  “Fired me as a best friend without so much as a pink slip, and now you’re making me punch you in the face to steal your dinner.”

“I never know what the fuck people are mad at me about,” Steve sighed, tucking the bag of food on the floor behind his feet, and smacking Dustin’s hands when he tried to get at it.  

“Who _else_ did you piss off?” Dustin made grabby hands.  “Surrender the fucking fries, man.”

“Start making _sense--_ oh, wait,” Steve pulled off abruptly at the hardware store and climbed out, engine still running, and Dustin swore after him. 

He jumped back in the car in short order, and avoided Dustin’s quizzical stare--he’d climbed over into the passenger seat to get at the food stash.  

“Steve Harrington,” Dustin hissed.  “What the hell did you need in the hardware store.”

“I dunno,” Steve rolled his eyes, flushing, as he pulled out into the road, and Dustin poked his face with a french fry, then gasped.  

“Oh shit, is it a weird sex thing?”

The car swerved, and Steve grappled with the wheel. _“What?!”_

“I thought I _knew_ you, man,” Dustin groaned, flopping across the back seat like it was a fainting couch, and answering every one of Steve’s increasingly bewildered questions with a long sigh.  Finally, Steve trailed off, staring at the road, and Dustin elbowed him. “...what is up with you, seriously.”

“...Uh, if,” Steve bit his lips together, squinting at the road, “--what if...every time you were mad about anything, I said we could watch Ghostbusters.  Like, over any--”

“That’s random.  You’d be awesome.  I like this Steve.  Fuck yeah,” Dustin munched a french fry, “--finally some good taste.”

“No, not like--okay, _Will_ then.  What if every time you like--slammed a door or--bitched about homework, he stepped back and said ‘Okay, let’s watch--’”

Dustin had his head cocked.  “Will _likes_ Ghostbusters.”  

Steve sighed, turning onto his street.  “Shit.  Never mind.”

“What are you even--”  When they passed Billy sitting in his Camaro in the driveway to pull into the garage, Dustin dropped his face in his hands, groaning.  “I hoped I was _wrong._ Son, _make better choices.”_

“What?!  Seriously, the fuck is up with you today.”  Steve snorted, feeling his face heat further.He grabbed the bag of burgers back, and the coffees, and let Dustin get the door into the house.

 “Here, go on in.”  Steve handed over _one_ of the burgers, and _some_ of the fries, ignoring Dustin’s face journey from disbelief through disapproval to eyebrow-waggling conspiracy, and opened the front door to tromp over and crouch next to Billy’s window.  “Hey--” he caught a glimpse of Dustin’s sneakers lingering in the doorway, and stood to glower.  

“Hurry up, Steve, you’re gonna freeze to death,” Dustin yelled, leaning down to wave at Billy before closing the door.

“...what was that?” Billy was frowning after Dustin, and Steve crouched again.  

“Here--” he turned Billy’s cigarette hand to place two keys in it.

“...what,” Billy turned his glare on the keys, then Steve.  

“My car,” Steve pointed, “and my house.  Do you need to park in the garage? Because there’s the other car in--”

“The road’s fine,” Billy’s voice sounded husky, and he cleared his throat.  “...this is still you being pissed at me, huh?”

Steve’s lips thinned.  “Yeah. I am. I’m gonna be for a while.”

“Yeah,” Billy laughed hoarsely.  “...what else you gonna do?”

Steve handed over one of the coffees.  “I’m gonna ask if you have any money for food.  Do you? We got burgers if you want one.” Billy was looking at the coffee cup, mouth slightly open, and instead of kissing it, Steve cleared his throat.  “You looked like you could use some caffeine.  Want a burger and fries?”

“...okay,” he frowned over.  “Am I allowed inside? I know you’ve got--” 

“Jesus, yeah, it’s cold out here,” Steve stepped back, yanking the door open.  “Come on, Hargrove, come dry off. The hell happened to your jacket? My sweatshirts aren’t _that_ warm.”

“Sorry,” Billy laughed, sounding like something was stuck in his throat.  “Didn’t get a lot of chance to pack.”

“We can ask Max to grab it.  Come on, dude, or are you frozen there.”  Billy swung his legs out, and Steve grabbed his hand and pulled him upright--slowly, so as not to spill the coffee.  “Do you have any money?  Seriously.  I know you don’t have a job.”

Billy opened his mouth, then shook his head, sipping the coffee and wrinkling his nose.

“Okay,” Steve ran his hand up and down the spine of his own sweatshirt, on Billy’s back, nudging him towards the door.  “What if you go shopping tonight.  Get some food.  I’ll pick you up and pay.”

“I don’t fucking know what you want,” Billy hunched his shoulders, but didn’t lean away.

“Get shit you’ll eat,” Steve shrugged.  “I’ll eat anything.”

“I can’t--”

“Seriously,” Steve held the door for him.  “Anything. Whatever you want.”

 

Dustin was at the kitchen table when they came in, biting a french fry in sliver-sized increments with his new front teeth.  Steve yanked his hand from around Billy’s waist, pressing the bag of food into his hand. He escaped Dustin’s narrowed eyes by trotting up the stairs to his room, and dropped his bag in front of his desk so he could trip over it later.  When he wandered back down, Billy was curled up in their favorite couch corner, and Dustin’s feet were kicking from under the couch.

“I think he likes it down there,” Billy muttered, and stuffed his burger back in his face.  Dustin let out a long, wavering gasp, and the laserdisc for Ghostbusters spun out and across the floor to hit Steve’s foot.  Steve kicked it back.  

“How _dare_ you,” Dustin scrambled back out from under the couch.  “I go looking for my favorite movie, because somebody kept _talking_ about it, and this _interloper_ has to tell me it’s _under the couch?_ Steve.  Why.  Why are you _lashing out_ at the _only people_ who love you.  Steve. _Is it puberty?”_   

Billy pressed a napkin over his mouth, but his shoulders were shaking.

“...fine, go for it, I see you two are against me--” Steve walked over and flopped in the other corner of the couch, grabbing the McDonald’s bag and yanking out another burger.  He jerked his head towards Billy.  “He’s fresh meat.  I made a Stay-Puff Man joke and he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.”

“Yusssssss,” Dustin whispered, scuttling over to the TV.  When it came on, he paused it, stood, and frowned at the couch cushion between them, before smacking his hand over his face.  He stalked over and _wedged his butt_ between Steve and the arm of the couch--Steve called him a fucking gremlin shithead--and _shoved him bodily_ until Dustin had a good three feet at one end of the couch, and Steve was only keeping himself out of Billy’s lap by bracing his arms to either side of his shoulders.  

“What in the _shit--_ there are _chairs--”_ Steve punched his shoulder, and settled in against Billy, who frowned between them, then dropped his gaze to his burger.  

“Shut up and let me ignore you, I’m trying to eat, _god,”_ Dustin shuddered.  

When they’d _finished_ eating, and Steve was trying to decide what to do with the hand brushing Billy’s, Dustin made a gagging noise and tossed a blanket over them, and in about thirty seconds Steve was dozing off in the warmth, his and Billy’s fingers interlocked.  He jostled awake a couple times, when Billy’s shoulder under his head shook with laughter, but kept his eyes shut, and let himself drift.  

 

Steve woke to his face pressed between Billy’s back and the back of the couch, Dustin and Billy’s low voices, and Dustin kicking his leg.  He snorted, shoving around with his elbows and smacking the couch until he extricated himself.

“...yeah, I see what you mean,” Dustin sounded like he was barely restraining laughter, and Steve rubbed his face, letting himself drop back against Billy’s lap.

“You both suck.”

“You drool in your sleep,” Billy informed him, grinning down, and Steve groaned, pulling the blanket over his head.  

“So I actually came over for a _reason,”_ Dustin announced, and Steve raised his head, listening through the blanket. _“Besides_ showing a--an _Imperial spy_ the best movie on earth.  Yeah.  So pay attention, it’s already a short gaming session for you padawans, Mike’ll kill us if we’re late from watching _Ghostbusters,”_ Dustin nudged Steve’s leg.  “Again.”

“‘M listening very carefully,” Steve mumbled, feeling Billy’s legs shake with laughter under his head.  

 _“Steve,”_ Dustin moaned.  “Get _up._ I got you a walkie-talkie.”

“No,” Steve heaved himself upright, batting the blanket away.  “Why.”

“So if we _need_ you, we can talk to you somewhere that doesn’t have a _phone.”_ Dustin was rolling his eyes, rifling the backpack he’d leaned against the couch.  He pulled out two walkie-talkies, flourishing one at Steve.  “Here.  The batteries last a long time--” 

Steve leaned close, rubbing his face, but listening, partially propped upright by Billy’s splayed hand on his back.  Midway through his lecture, Dustin leaned around Steve and threw the other one into Billy’s lap.  

“Fuck!  Jesus,” Billy tried to protect his crotch with the hand he had supporting Steve, then smacked it back between Steve’s shoulder blades before Steve finished flailing for the back of the couch, “--the hell everybody got against my cock, _christ.”_

Dustin grinned.  “I’ve got a spare anyway, they come in pairs--”

“Fuck you _and_ your spare cock,” Billy muttered.  “Fuck you with both. The hell does this thing even work.”

“Oh, here,” Steve swung his legs around to lean into Billy again, ignoring Dustin’s grimace.   “You want me to _show you how to handle--”_

“Oh my god,” Dustin gagged.  “Do not finish that sentence.”  

The two of them leaned over the walkie-talkies, head to head, and Dustin had to yank Steve back around by the shoulder, then surrender and sit crosslegged on the coffee table to explain channels.  After explaining their party channel, and Mike and El’s channel--at this, he waggled his eyebrows--Steve held his hand up.  “That. I want that, get me and him a channel.”

“...ooookay.”  Dustin raised his eyebrows, nose wrinkled.

“I don’t wanna hear all your guys’ bullshit,” Steve reached out and messed up Dustin’s hair, and got his hand smacked.  “If you need somebody to come over with a bat, you can use our channel.” 

Billy nodded, clicking buttons.  

“We’ll just leave them on, and if you need anything--” Steve took a deep breath, feeling some bone-deep part of his shoulders unclench for the first time in months.  “If you idiots need help, we’ll know.”

 

As they tried to leave, Billy followed Steve around with a grocery list, suggesting foods, and  broke his pencil when Steve insisted he didn’t care.  “Seriously, just buy whatever.  I’ll just call when we’re wrapping up, if you want, so you don’t have to wait, and meet you there--oh!”  Billy was trying to show Steve roast beef and potatoes on the list, and he pushed it down, frowning.  “Probably don’t answer the phone, since he knows the number.  If I need to call, I’ll--I’ll yell into the message machine, turn it on.  Oh, and you should probably pull into the garage.”  Dustin’s eyes were darting between them, head cocked.  “And I’ll keep the walkie-talkie on, if--if anything happens.”  

Billy took a shaky breath, following him to the hook where he kept his keys.  “You gotta give me something, Harrington.  Burgers?”

Steve blinked.  “You’re gonna make burgers?  Jesus, you can stay as long as you want.”  Billy froze for a second, before huffing a laugh, turning on his heel, and tromping upstairs.  

Dustin cleared his throat, but waited until they got in the garage. _“...soooo._ Max is staying with _Lucas_ this week. _Hopper_ agreed to _lie_ and say she was with them, but they’re going to visit El’s mom this weekend.  So _even though it’s a school week,_ Hopper talked to Lucas’ mom, and Max Hargrove is staying with them the whole week.”  Dustin drummed his fingertips at the window as Steve unlocked the car.

“Good,” Steve nodded, taking another deep breath of relief.  

“Annnnd _Billy_ Hargrove’s staying in _your_ house.”

“...uh.”  Steve glanced over to meet Dustin’s gaze, and scrabbled at his hair.  “I know it’s a shitty idea, but their dad is--he’s the fucking Fuhrer.”

“Huh.”  As they pulled away, Dustin was watching the door to the kitchen.

 

The first post-Billy D&D night started smoothly, with Max and Eleven’s heads together--Steve grinned, reminding himself to ask Billy about that.  He pulled Will aside.  “I didn’t want to tell your mom you hadn’t _asked,”_ he tried to channel Hopper’s no-nonsense voice, and Will bounced on his toes.  “Will. I--you _can’t._ Some--Hargrove’s--he’s staying.  For a while. I’m full up.”

“I can sleep on the couch,” Will beamed.  “I’ll bring my _Nintendo.”_

“No.”  Steve held his hands up, and Dustin frowned over.  Steve stuck his hands in his pockets.  “Stay with Mike or somebody.  Can’t do it.  Maybe some other time.”  He turned and walked back to the table, unable to look into Will’s wide disappointed eyes, _or_ risk Billy and Will staying in the same house.  

Dustin was muttering with Mike over in the corner, making notes on his pages, and Mike was trying to yank them back.  Nancy crouched down with them, and they all started whispering and scribbling, so Steve leaned down between Max and El.  

“...how were waffles?”

They exchanged a long glance, and then El stared at Steve, chewing her lip.

“...fine?” Max grimaced.

“...shit, what happened,” Steve yanked a chair over to sit between them, and they both bit their lips.  

“Nothing,” El prodded her dice.  

“It was fine.  Billy was fine, it was weird, actually,” Max frowned, like she’d just _remembered_ Billy, and Steve opened his mouth to ask what the hell he was missing, when Mike looked up, saw Will and Steve sitting down, and clapped over his head for attention.  

“Go siddown,” Max hissed, and Steve raised his eyebrows, but moved around between El and Dustin.

“So!” Mike thumped his notes against the table, eyes narrowed at Dustin.  “The, uh, that little town-girl that made those pies you liked,” Mike said, to general nods, “She starts crying!”  He raised his eyebrows at El, and she nodded, leaning in.  “Just, like, bawling. She runs away from you to her mom, yelling ‘They’re scary too!’”  Mike spoke as the little girl, in a very high voice, and Lucas cackled into his arms.

“We’re not scary!” El bit her lips.  “I...I get down so I’m smaller.”

“I tell her we’re here to protect her,” Lucas rolled a die, and snickered.  “Uh, _damn,_ she will _not_ believe me, I must’ve dropped a huge knife out of my sleeve, or--”

“Oh _no,”_ Will leaned to look at his rolled die, “--I say ‘Oh, ignore him, he’s harmless--” he rolled his own.  “...ugh, crap. I...just...set myself on fire or something, give me a different die, this one’s broken--”

“The little girl’s still scared,” Mike passed one over, raising his eyebrows.  “Moreso, now, actually--”

“Uh, I’ll try telling her we’re just passing through,” Steve leaned to see what El had rolled, waggled his fingers, frowning over his dice, and then checked over his character sheet with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, “...I...pass?  I think?”  El leaned over to check, and nodded.  

“Okay,” Mike nodded.  “She says ‘If I make you more pie, will you promise not to hurt us?’”

 _“Augh,”_ Steve thudded back in his chair, and Dustin shot a grin at him.  El, Lucas, and Will leaned in, talking over each other.  

“I will tell her we do not need pie!”  El waved.  “We are here to _protect_ her--”

“Wait, we shouldn’t all _shout_ at her--” Lucas held his hands up quellingly.

“I’ll teach her how to use _a fucking axe_ so she doesn’t have to bribe adventurers with pie,” Max rolled her eyes, “--but I’ll stand over, uh,” she pointed to the map.  “Out of the way, while you all calm her down.”

“...I’m gonna ask if other adventurers have hurt them,” Dustin rolled, and Steve glared at him, feeling his cheeks heat.  

Mike cleared his throat.  “She says yeah, they come in with big swords, and they break things, and she asks if you want a pie.”

“I’m going to put my weapon down on this crate,” Lucas says, steepling his fingers, “--and I’ll say her pie is really, really good, but we won’t hurt her whether she decides to make us any or not.”  He rolled it, and he and Mike exchanged nods.  Dustin kicked Steve’s leg, waggling his eyebrows significantly toward Lucas, and Steve kicked him back.  

Mike threw an eraser.  “Dustin!  Hello!”

“Sorry!” Dustin pursed his lips, eyes narrowed.  “I’ll toss mine over there too.  And--I’m gonna try introducing her to everyone?”  He pointed to Max, and Mike mimed rolling a die, so he did, and stuck his tongue out at the interruption.  “‘That’s our Zoomer, Maxamelia--”

 _“Do not_ call me that _ever_ again,” Max pointed her pencil.

The corner of Dustin’s mouth quirked. _“Maxamelia_ can be scary, but she’s mad _because people scared you.”_

“Shut up.  I guess, I mean, basically,” Max wrinkled her nose, “--what is she, like, a toddler?  What _asshole_ scares little kids.”  

Steve winced.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll introduce myself too,” Will rolled it.  “...I will not introduce myself.  I think I.  I must have…fallen over?  Maybe I just slid.” 

Lucas leaned to look at his roll.  “...how are you failing so _hard?_ What’d you do, threaten her?  Flash her?  Did you slip on a _banana peel?”_

“No!” Will shouted, eyes huge.

Mike squinted at them, and rolled what sounded like a handful of dice.  “Okay, she thinks he’s funny,” he pointed at Will, then Max, “--she’s probably gonna dress like _you_ for Halloween, and she thinks maybe the rest of you are...okay?”

“I’m going to ask if she’d like a hug,” El rolled her die, frowned at it, and it lopped over one additional time.  “And I pass my check!”

“...you cheated,” Lucas stared at her.  

“Good for her,” Max snorted, and Will giggled.  

El held her hand over her nose, and Lucas rolled his eyes, and handed her a napkin to wipe away the evidence of her telekinesis.  “I hug her and tell her we’re here to help, and not for her pies.”  She blew her nose.  “We’re happy to meet her and her pies, but she’s--she’s _surprise_ awesome.”  

After several minutes of the entire party--including, eventually, Max--reassuring the little girl, she threw her arms around El, and told them the story of a long-ago hero who had fought the vampire with a huge wooden stake, or bat, that had been destroyed--its nails yanked out and melted, and the wood itself burned.  

Dustin kicked Steve’s leg, and grinned when he looked over.  “I got you that advice,” he whispered.

“Shut up,” Steve whispered back. 

“My mom knows more about the weapon,” Mike clutched his rolled notes worriedly, in character, and  Max grilled him on the village’s legend that it hadn’t really burned up, though it still burned like the sun.  

“It was one of a kind,” Mike narrated, as the mom, in a slightly lower falsetto.  “It was once possessed by the vampire’s brother, Sergei von Zarovich, the--” Mike paused, stared at the line, and glared over his shoulder at the door to the rest of the house.  “My dumb sister made him a baseball player.  The vampire’s _brother--”_ Dustin cracked up, falling into Lucas, who tried to keep a straight face until he looked at Mike’s disgusted grimace.  

“The vampire’s _brother_ is a _baseball player,”_ Mike repeated, as Max beamed, and El listened to Will explaining why it was funny.  “This is Nancy’s fault, she’s being--stupid. It’s--augh.”

“Does he play for the Hoosiers?” Will giggled, and Lucas cackled, leaning his face on the table.  

“It’s hilarious, keep going,” Max leaned her chin on her hands, grin wide.

“Ugh,” Mike groaned.  “--the vampire’s _baseball playing brother--”_

“Does he turn into a bat at night?” Dustin asked, snickering, and Mike groaned, folding his arms over his head and hiding behind his notes.  

“This is so dumb, I hate my sister, she’s such an asshole--”

“Did they make him play batboy?” Steve asked, leaning back to fold his hands behind his head, and Max snorted.  

“You all suck,” Mike threw an eraser at Dustin, who was laughing the hardest.  “In its original form, it had silver nails pounded throughout, and it was soaked in holy water.  Strahd--”

“Who the hell is Strahd?” Max frowned around.

“The _vampire_ in love with _Steve,”_ El whispered.

 _“Strahd,”_ Mike smacked his hand on the table, “--employed a powerful wizard named Khazan to destroy the weapon after his brother died.”

“No!” Dustin gasped.  “He died?!  My baseball-playing vampire hero!  We barely met!”

“Steve’s true love!” Will suggested, and Steve snickered.

 _“The first part of the process,”_ Mike shouted over the commentary, “--required the nails be pulled from the bat, which Khazan accomplished.  He melted them down, but in the meantime, his apprentice stole the bat and fled!  He later located his apprentice’s mutilated corpse in the Svalich Woods, but the bat was nowhere to be found.  To avoid the vampire’s wrath, Khazan told Strahd that the entire weapon had been destroyed _\--but,”_ Mike whispered, “The apprentice was secretly a member of the resistance!  She was delivering the bat to be protected, for when the time of our revolution is nigh!  It is currently wielded by _\--Nancy!”_ he bellowed up the stairs.  “Nancy, what is this shit!”

“Shoulda checked first,” Max sat her chin on her hands, grinning, and Lucas dodged as Mike leaned around and punched Dustin in the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Everybody needs to stop fucking up my _game--”_

“Come on,” Max’ grin was ever more feral.  She threw an arm around Eleven, who giggled.  “Out with it.”

“Euuuuugh,” Mike groaned.  “It’s currently wielded by the _pirate revolutionary, Nan Wheeler--”_

Max cackled, dropping her head to Eleven’s shoulder, and Eleven’s eyes narrowed.

“You can put yourself _in the game?”_ she asked, eyes widening, as her smile grew.

“No, okay, no,” Mike flapped his notes at her.  “No.  Nancy's an asshole.  Anyway, _I guess_ if you want the Illustrious Sun Bat, you have to trace her ship and challenge her to--”

“I’m doing it!” Max’s hand shot into the air.  “Lucas!  El!  I wanna famous...bat.  I guess.” She cracked her knuckles.  “Come with me.”

Lucas and El punched the air in unison, without looking at each other, and Steve wondered when _that_ friendship had gotten close.

Mike waggled his eyebrows, now committed.  “--thus proving to her that you are worthy.  Her true weapon is a pirate revolver, but she guards the sacred Sun Bat until the time has come to _\--jesus,_ Nancy, nobody cares--”

“Read it!” Dustin yelled, and Max, Lucas, and El punched the air again.  Steve followed suit.

Mike groaned.  “Eugh. Okay, the wood, which is sapient, knows it can never be reunited with its original bless’d nails, but when the wizard attempted to burn it, and the apprentice sacrificed herself to save it, it attained _magic properties--”_ He passed around a sheet of numbers, and Lucas held it against the description of his own weapon and said “Oooooh.”

 

When Mike started winding up for the evening, Steve snuck out and called home, leaving a message for Billy.  He returned to find Max, El, and Lucas planning a sleepover.  Dustin was getting a ride home with Hopper.  Will trailed after Steve as he booked it to his car, and he ducked in and locked the doors, _pretty certain_ he wouldn’t be able to resist the pleading eyes twice.  

When he pulled up to the grocery store, there were no other cars.  Billy was standing next to a heaped cart, hands in the pockets of Steve’s sweatshirt.

“Hey, you,” Steve wandered up.  “You’re ready?”

“...you didn’t even look,” Billy squinted at him, waving at the cart.  

Steve looked.  “...you know how to cook a lot of things.  Wow. _None_ of this shit has microwave instructions.  Y’know last time I got invited for home cooking, they--”

“Why the hell would you _microwave_ an _orange,”_ Billy snatched it away.

“You’re buying fruit,” Steve observed, trying to have an opinion on the groceries.

Billy side-eyed him.  “Yeah, I’m afraid you’re gonna get _scurvy.”_

Steve bumped shoulders with him, wishing they could hold hands.  “Nah, I’ve got you, Hargro--”

“It’s gonna be expensive,” Billy smirked, cracking his neck.  

“...not as expensive as delivery.”  Steve spun on his heel around Billy, dropping both hands to the cart handle, and headed for the checkout while Billy was still spinning to face him.  

He ran to catch up.  “What the _fuck,_ Harrington, you can’t just _buy_ all this shit--put back the stuff you--”

“Enh, I trust you,” Steve got to the checkout, started unloading the cart, and frowned around for Billy, who was still back glaring at him from next to a display of canned corn.  

 

When they pulled up to the house, Will was sitting on the doorstep, surrounded by assorted totes and three trash bags, and hugging his backpack.  

“Shit, he’s probably got broken glass in his ass,” Billy scrambled out.  “Kid.  Don’t sit there--”

Steve let himself fall forward against the steering wheel, then scrambled back as the car honked.  After a long groan, he got out, stalking over to face the guilty yet stubborn faces of two Williams.  “I, uh, I got your mail.”  Will held out a coupon booklet, and a box from the movie club.  

“Should probably get inside,” Billy bit his lips, grabbing some bags from the ground.  Steve rubbed his face, and unlocked the door.  They dumped the pile just inside, joined by their groceries.

“Hi,” Will ducked his head, swallowing.

“Hullo, _Will,”_ Steve raised his eyebrows.  “What’re you _doing_ here?”

“So, um,” Will laughed nervously, sidling towards the kitchen.  “Uh, Jonathan and Nancy are going to check out some colleges this weekend--Nancy’s dad paid for them to stay and Mom and Jonathan got enough together for a plane ticket, but they can’t afford _me,_ so they’ll be gone and my mom has to work overtime and can’t check on me and, um--”

Billy leaned against the wall between the front room and the kitchen, and Steve raised his eyebrows.

“I, uh,” Will took a shaky breath.  “Hopper’s taking Eleven and Mike to see her mom, and _Lucas_ has _Max,_ so _his_ mom said no.  Dustin’s mom has _bronchitis._ ”

Billy pushed off the wall and wandered closer, prodding Steve’s shoulder with two fingers.

Will sniffled.  “Mom said I could stay with Dustin, or Mike, or Lucas, but if I couldn’t stay somewhere she didn’t want me alone, she wasn’t gonna let Jonathan go with Nancy if I can’t--”

“So you talked her into Steve,” Billy cut him off, and Will flinched.

“Okay, okay, we just--” Steve smoothed his hair, then staggered as Billy grabbed his elbow, hauled him into the garage, and slammed the door.  Steve ended up shoved against it, Billy’s whispering face within kissing distance.

“I can do this,” Billy licked his lips.  “I _can._ I won’t--I promise, Harrington, shit.  Fuck.”  He smacked his hand against the door next to Steve’s head, closing his eyes.  “I can stay in the upstairs room--”

“I don’t know,” Steve let his head fall against the door.  “Maybe I should go...stay at their house?”  

Billy’s head jerked up, eyes fixed on his face.  

“At least go over and make him breakfast, make sure he gets home from school--”  

The step creaked as Billy dropped to sit on it, taking long shaky breaths.  Steve slid down to lean against him.  

“...christ, Bil--Hargrove.  I wasn’t gonna make you _leave._ He’s gonna be even more pissed off, isn’t--” He cut off as Billy grabbed his shirt, hauling him in to a kiss with trembling hands.  Billy’s lips were soft, but he tasted salty, and his eyelashes were wet.  Steve turned his face away.  He yanked Idiot Hargrove against his shoulder, squeezing him with intent to make his bones creak.  

“Fuck,” Billy whispered into his neck, laughing wetly.  “...shit.  Sorry.  I keep fucking up this ‘we’re done’ thing.”

“I do too,” Steve _didn’t_ kiss the soft curls above Billy’s ear, or kiss down his neck with his whole mouth.  “But you--I don’t--” he hugged him tighter as he tried to organize his thoughts, remembering Eleven’s character’s caution with the little pie girl.  “You were so good with Will.  I wouldn’t have thought of half that shit.  And you were _worried_ about me, you get mad they left me with the kids and the bat.  Every time.”

“What?” Billy slid an arm around to grab the back of Steve’s collar.  “You never make _sense--”_

“I--I do like you,” Steve felt his face heating, and barreled through the intense feeling of idiocy.  “I wouldn’t--you don’t have to kiss me.  I _like_ you.”

“What,” Billy laughed.  “What.  What are you--no you _don’t.”_

“I do, _actually,”_ Steve buried his face against Billy’s neck, breathing traces of cologne.  “Even if I _didn’t,_ I’d want you here--”

“Because I’m a person,” Billy snickered into his neck.  His voice was shaky, and Steve recognized nervous giggles.  He slid a hand up the back of Billy’s neck, and didn’t kiss him.

“Yeah.  You’re a fucking person, I’ll do anything I can to help you get out of there.  But if somebody’s--if I gotta have somebody staying here--” he took a deep breath, feeling Billy tense in his arms, “--I--I’m glad it’s you.”

“Jesus _christ,”_ Billy moaned into his shoulder.  “Shit. _Harrington.”_ He smacked Steve’s shoulder. _“Fuck.”_

Steve opened his mouth, grinning, as a quick, soft knock came at the door to the kitchen.  “--shit.  Will.  He’s probably freaking out in there.”

Billy jerked his head up, wiping his eyes.  “I meant it, I can--I can manage.  I know I...I don’t need to make you--”

“No, fuck you,” Steve leaned to yell through the door.  “It’s okay, Will, we’ll be out in a minute!”  He turned back.  “You threatened to _burn Max,_ man, that doesn’t just--”

“But I _didn’t!”_ Billy narrowed his eyes.  “Even if she _had_ backed up, I’d have burned my own fucking fingers off--”

“Yeah, and what if I hadn’t done what you wanted?  Then what?”

“...thought maybe I’d throw something,” Billy shrugged, looking off to the side, “--break your mugs.”

“Break my _mugs,”_ Steve repeated.

“They weren’t on the _list._ Don’t hurt your kids, don’t hurt you--I don’t fucking know, pretending I’d burn Max _worked--”_

“What the fuck,” Steve breathed, and Billy’s jaw worked.  

“I _didn’t hurt her._ I knew you didn’t trust me, you’d react if I acted like--”

“It’s--it’s not--I can’t--”

“Here we go,” Billy snorted, wiping his eyes.

“Fuckhead.  You--you held a fucking--you can’t--that’s--” Steve scrabbled at his hair, gritted his teeth, and wished Dustin had covered more in his _How To Speak To Humans_ D&D class.  “You don’t--you can’t--just _\--point a weapon at someone_ unless you wanna _use_ it.”

“Pointed that bat at me earlier,” Billy raised his eyebrows.

“Yeees,” Steve sighed, letting himself slump back against the door.  “I just--I was pointing with the thing in my hand.  I _forgot,_ all right, you didn’t--you weren’t _forgetting--_ and _then,”_ he clenched his fingers, and _didn’t_ punch Billy in the leg, “--then I saw you go ‘oh shit, he’s mad, he’s got the bat--’”

“That’s not what I sound like.  At all,” Billy leaned against the door, and Steve’s shoulder, grinning.

“--and I _remembered_ and I _stopped_ pointing a weapon at you and I walked the fuck _out--”_

“And tossed it in the garage so I wouldn’t see it while we talked, yeah.”  Billy’s head thumped softly against his, and Steve elbowed him.

“Augh.  I’m still _pissed,_ stop--fucking _\--nuzzling_ me.”  

“I wasn’t gonna hurt Max, I had a plan,” Billy pulled away, rolling his eyes, “--I was--”

“You were losing your _shit."_ Steve rubbed his face, groaning.  “You shitface.  Fuckhead. _Asshole.”_

“...sorry I--lost my shit.  Made you lose your shit.”  

“You fucking better be,” Steve muttered into his hands.  “Thought I was gonna puke.”

Billy took a deep breath, and blew it back out.  “Okay, yeah, I know I’m--crazy.”

“That’s not what I--”

“But I stuck to the _deal._ I didn’t aim the fucking bottle at you.  I punched the _wall--”_

“Jesus, I _forgot_ you hucked a _bottle_ at me, you--you fucking--”

Billy raised his eyebrows, waiting, but when Steve just growled through his teeth, he continued.  “Just about broke my goddamn hand, by the way, but I wasn’t--I knew what I was _doing,_ I wasn’t gonna hurt _you._ Or Max.”

“I’m supposed to trust you with _Will_ when you lose your shit and _punch walls._ You threw a bottle at me!”

“It missed you by a fucking mile!  It’s--just--shit.”  Billy leaned his face in his hands, echoing Steve’s pose.  They probably looked like matched salt and pepper shakers.  “Just--try and--trust me to follow the _rules._ I did.  I’ve been--I’ve been _fucking following_ them.”

Steve stared at him.  “...jesus, you _are_ crazy.”  

Billy flinched. _“Fuck_ you.  I did what you wanted--”

“No, you’re fucking nuts.  You think that makes _sense?_ No wonder I don’t make any fucking sense to you.”  Steve watched Billy close his eyes, jaw clenching.  “So you could--you could do--any fucked up shit--if I’m not _bleeding out_ after--”

Billy took a sobbing breath against the sleeves on his forearms.  “You made the fucking rules, Harrington, I followed them, I--I fucking _followed your rules--”_

“Shit _fuck,”_ Steve yanked him close.  “The fuck are you _crying._ You’re so fucking crazy, christ.  We need--we need more rules.”

“More rules,” Billy nodded, swallowing against his shoulder.

“Don’t scare the shit out of kids.  Don’t scare me.  Don’t--” he took a deep breath, feeling like he needed a lawyer.  “If anybody’s afraid, _stop_ what the fuck you’re _doing.”_

“Yeah.”

“I fucking mean _anybody.”_

“Yes--yeah.  I get it.  I’ll be better,” he laughed.  It didn’t sound happy. “Keep it simple, I’m stupid _and_ crazy.”

“Shit.”  Steve for once _didn’t_ want to kiss him.  “You’re...you know it’s wrong.  To scare people.”

“Never hurt _me,”_ Billy muttered, and Steve crushed him to his side again.  

“Fuck.  Okay.  You--sorry I--sorry I called you crazy.  You’re--you’re just--treating people like your dad does.”

_“I didn’t fucking hurt Max.”_

“No, I--I know.  But you--you’re scary as hell sometimes, man.  You can’t--Hargrove.”

“I’m listening,” Billy sniffled.  

“You can’t do that shit.  You can’t.”

“New rule.”  Billy huffed a laugh.

“What?”

“When I fuck up.  He shoves me against--against the shelves and says ‘new rule, _Billy,_ be respectful in the _hallway._ Didn’t know I had to be so _goddamn specific.’”_

Steve didn’t want to try and figure out his thoughts on Billy’s dad, since most of them involved Wile E. Coyote dropping an anvil on his head so hard he shot out of the ground in Australia.  “...you got any more rules, ba--uh, bastard?” 

“What?  ‘S your fuckin’ house, _Harrington,_ I haven’t got _rules--”_

“Like ‘call you Hargrove.’” 

“...call me Billy then, I’d get used to it.”

“I thought you _liked_ it, I mean.  That time.”

“Big difference between you breathing it in my ear when I’ve got my hand on my cock, and when I’m getting bawled out,” Billy rolled his eyes.  “I thought you were pretending I was Nancy Wheeler--”

“She does _not_ have a _moustache,_ though, I don’t get how you--okay, anyway, it’s what your dad calls you, right, so if I don’t sound, uh, horny--”

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t give a shit,” Billy leaned into him, interlocking their fingers.

Steve squeezed back, leaning into the smell of Billy’s aftershave.  “I won’t yell it.  I could yell ‘William Whatever Hargrove’ again.”  

“William Something-or-Other Hargrove,” Billy snickered.  “William the Vaguely Unmemorable--”

“Oh, you’re memorable,” Steve sighed, listening to the floor creak in the kitchen.  He felt bad letting Will stew, but this also seemed like the kind of conversation it’d be hard to get into again.  “Okay.  Rules.  We don’t hurt anyone.  Or scare anyone.”

 _“‘We,’”_ Billy side-eyed him, grinning.  

“Me too.  I mean, I might, by accident.  Okay, we don’t hurt or scare anyone _on purpose.”_

Billy slumped against him.  “How d’you know whether it was on purpose, though.”

“...I...ask...you?” Steve narrowed his eyes.  “Wait.  What?”

“So I’m supposed to...what.  Just tell you.  Don’t fucking _\--grab_ me in the shower, if I’ve got my eyes closed.”

“Christ.  Yeah.  Tell me.  I won’t do that anymore.”

“Fine.”  Billy drew a long breath.

 _“Fine.”_ They both frowned at the cars for a long second, before Steve felt Billy’s shoulders shaking with giggles, and cracked up himself.  “You can just tell me stuff as you think of it.  Oh.  Shit. _Wake me up_ if you’re going out to have a smoke.”

“Jesus, yeah,” Billy snorted.  “You fucking _barbarian._ Wandering around with your _club.”_

“Sorry,” Steve leaned their heads together, snickering.  “Uh, if that--if I--you can just tell me to stop.  Whatever I’m doing.”

“Stop it,” Billy whined, rolling his eyes, then took another slow breath, closing them.  “You have to--you should--just--fucking _tell me_ why you’re _pissed.”_

“What?  Now?”

“Whenever.”  He half stood, and Steve yanked him back down by their intertwined hands.  

“Shit, okay, uh, I’m really fucking pissed at your dad.  Just--what a fucking asshole.  I want him disappeared by, like, _secret police,_ so you and Max are safe.”  Billy shook his head, smiling.  “Seriously, Hargrove.  Some of this shit you do, it’s not on you, it’s his--his fucking bullshit _he_ did.  He’s gonna keep hurting people.  When I said don’t hurt anybody--”

“Yeah, I got it,” Billy rolled his eyes.

“No, shut up.  If he _has_ you, do whatever you need to, christ.  Elbow him in the fucking face.  Run him over.”

“Jesus,” Billy leaned away.  “You can stop now.”

“You don’t get hurt either, okay.  He tries to fuck with you and I’ll get my fucking bat.”

“I--we should go talk to Will,” Billy scrambled back up, opening the kitchen door.

 

Will was perched on the arm of the couch, but he slid off, standing at attention.  His gaze flicked from Steve, to Billy wiping his eyes, and down to their interlocked hands.  

“He’s got allergies,” Steve blurted, and Billy started snickering again, leaning against his shoulder.  “Um.  Sorry, we had--other shit to talk about.  We’ll--we’ll figure it out--”

“I heard you calling him a fuckhead shitface,” Will said solemnly.

“Uh,” Steve stalled out, and Billy laughed harder.  

“It was pretty fair,” he dragged Steve over to the couch.  “He’s not throwing me out, or anything.”

“I’m not fucking throwing you out, christ,” Steve yanked him down.  “I will _not ever_ throw you out, jesus. _God.”_

“He’s forgiving me because of our true gay love,” Billy turned his half-lidded smirk on Will, and Steve didn’t react for a long second, feeling his face heat, then grabbed Billy’s shoulder and tugged him back to start dropping kisses all over his face.  

“Damn straight--” he grinned, “--I kinda like him.”  Will was giggling, wide-eyed.

“Jesus _fuck_ what are you _doing--”_ Billy flailed against Steve’s arms, trying to hide his face, before he shifted over to kicking his feet. _Gotta make it look like he’s struggling, even if he’s not._

“Huge gay love,” Steve whispered across his ear, and Billy yelped, flailing in earnest, as Steve rocked him, and started _singing._ In a Disney mouse voice.  “So this is love, mm-mm, mm-mm--” 

“That’s not a song!” Billy kicked in the air, cackling, and trying to bat away the continuing kisses.  

Will vanished to the kitchen, then slowly popped up behind the arm of the couch like a groundhog, holding a _Polaroid camera._ “Can I take your picture?”

Billy nearly kicked himself off the couch.  “Holy fuck!  Harrington!”  

“I'm all aglow and now I know,” Steve warbled, kissing his eyelids, and Billy held bruisingly tight to his arms, laughing.  His face was hot against Steve’s lips, and his eyelashes still wet.  “The key to our heaven is mine~” Steve kissed the end of his nose.  “I _did_ get you out of your tower.”

“Haven’t stole my fucking shoe yet, Charming,” Billy mumbled, eyes fixed on Steve’s lips as he used Steve’s arms to pull himself upwards.

Will put his hand over his eyes.  “Guys! Can I take your picture?  I brought my camera!”

Steve leaned in to press kisses against Billy’s eyelashes and ear, breathing in.  He smelled like the woods, somehow, kinda _\--we could shop for cologne.  It’d be fun, trying the--no, wait, I think we’d get arrested for public nudity._ “Can he take our picture?”

“The fuck would he want to,” Billy squirmed so his shirt rode up, and Steve snorted, raising his eyebrows.  “Sure, go ahead.”

Will clicked five photos, and Billy started kicking again.  

Steve let go, still humming, and Billy turned around to yank at Steve’s sweatshirt zipper, press warm lips to Steve’s lower belly, and _blow_ as hard as he could, and Steve smacked a hand over the noise that tried to come out of his mouth.  

Billy sat up, yanking his shirt straight, and ignoring Steve leaning in to keep humming princess tunes in his ear.  “What’s in all the bags?”

Will bounced on his heels, flapping a Polaroid in each hand.  “I brought the VHS of _Wrath of Khan._ And _Lord of the Rings.”_

Billy looked over at Steve, mouth twitching.  “He brought _Lord of the Rings.”_

“Eugh, I have those.” Steve rolled his eyes.  “You _watched_ them here.”

“I brought the _fancy editions,”_ Will dropped to rummage in his bag, and pulled out two massive hardcovers with runes all over their metallic surfaces.

“...you brought the books,” Steve cocked his head, then squinted at Billy, who was covering a grin.  “To...read aloud?”

“Jonathan and mom and I read different characters,” he bounced on his toes, rummaging some more, and Steve took the opportunity to look at Billy and pretend to shove his finger down his throat and puke.  

Billy shook his head, raising his eyebrows.  “What’d you tell your mom?”

“I left a note,” Will’s shoulders hunched, then looked up hopefully.  “I brought my old Halloween candy!  And mom got some Valentine’s candy, I didn’t, um--” he glanced between them, flushing.  “I didn’t tell her!  I’m sorry!  The box is shaped like a heart!”

“I can feed it to Steve later,” Billy grinned over his shoulder, and Steve leaned into him, laughing into his neck.  “Shoulda used a condom, Your Majesty,” Billy whispered, “--if you didn’t wanna be a _dad.”_

“I brought my Nintendo, too.”  Will ran and got another bag.  “And--”

“I’ve got an Atari.”  Billy leaned to look, and Steve groaned, laughing.

“...so you just had your mom drop you off.”  He leaned his chin against Billy’s shoulder.  

“I told her I wanted to pack some more things and you had to get groceries.”  Will lowered his head, hiding behind a polaroid.  

“...lemme see it,” Steve sighed, and slid his arms around Billy’s shoulders, waving a hand for the photo.  “Hand ‘em over.  Your payment.”  

“He can stay?”  Billy leaned back into him.

“I can stay?”  Will crawled over the arm of the couch, nearly into Billy’s lap, grinning, and held out one picture.  It was blurry.  “What do I get for picture number two?”

 _“All_ of them, you fucking--”

“Fork ‘em over, you tiny goddamn scammer,” Billy grabbed two, and Will giggled, flailing the last two out of reach.  

“Shit, you’re cute here,” Steve poked at the top one, where Billy’s grin had gone small and soft.  Billy tried to stuff it in his mouth, and Steve yanked him backwards.  “No!  Will!  Grab it!”

Will climbed over their knees, grabbing for it, and held it over his head.  “Ha!”

“Little grifter’s not gonna give that back.”  Billy leaned his head back against Steve’s neck, and Steve squeezed him tighter.  

“Good, since you don’t know what food is _either, Hargrove._ I’m not gonna put it in my _locker,_ calm the fuck down.”

“That’s not even the cutest one,” Will huddled at the other end of the couch, beaming.  He slid them in his pocket, after exchanging slow nods with Steve over Billy’s shoulder.

 

Once Billy squirmed away, Steve followed to help with the groceries.  Billy grabbed things out of his hands and put them in the fridge instead of the cupboard, or the cupboard instead of the fridge, and Will wandered in with his arms around another tied-off trash bag.  

“Uh,” he cleared his throat, dropping into a chair, and Billy stopped hissing at Steve about rancid oils, mealy tomatoes, and food poisoning to lean against the counter, rubbing his face.  

“Whatcha got?” Steve grinned, stepping toward the fridge, but letting Billy yank the bread out of his hand and smack it on the counter.

“Um.”  Will untied the bag.  “A lot of, uh, Christmas lights.  Mom didn’t want them.  I thought we could make a fort?”

Steve blinked.  “A--like a blanket fort?”

“What have you got?  Are there more pillows somewhere?”  Will’s eyes narrowed.  “I _really like_ forts.”  Billy raised his eyebrows at Steve, who quirked his mouth, cocking his head in an almost-shrug.  

Billy stopped Steve from dropping a bag of apples into a drawer in the fridge from waist high, and turned away to toss the bread in a cupboard.  “Sounds like it’s a good thing _somebody_ knows what he’s doing.”

“Oy,” Steve held his hands up, grinning as Billy shoved him out of the kitchen.

“We could tie blankets to your track lighting,” Will whispered, hugging the bag, then blinked down, and dropped it on the chair.  Billy shook his head.

“Okay,” Steve led him to the closet with the itchy ribbon-edged blankets.  “Tell me the plan, and I’ll tell you what we’ve got.”

“...we can spread these underneath,” Will pursed his lips, and reached in to yank out a few pillows.  “And my sleeping bag. Can we take anything from your parent’s bed?  Are they home?”

“Uh, there aren’t really any blankets somebody isn’t _using--”_

“I get to meet your parents?”  Will blinked around.  “Are they upstairs? I rang the doorbell--”

“Shit, no.  No, there’s--” Steve bit his lips. _We sleep together anyway, not like he won’t notice._ “You mind if we ransack your bed, Hargrove?” Steve yelled, and Billy shouted back a no.  When Steve threw the door open, Will stopped and stared around.  Billy’d unpacked from his car--probably while Steve was at D&D--and had plenty of his _own_ shirts, Steve noticed, no need to keep filching sweatshirts.  He stripped the bed, tossing the ruffled chintz pillows to Will, and bundling up the comforter to toss over the railing and down the stairs.  “That enough?”

“...wait.”  Will frowned up.  “That was _Billy’s_ bed--”

“Uh,” Steve’s brain stumbled between explaining where Billy would sleep, and suggesting Will use the name ‘Hargrove’ instead.

“You’re both sleeping...up here?”  He blinked, and his cheeks flushed.  “Oh! Together!  I mean, okay!  Sorry!  I didn’t mean to--of course you wouldn’t want to--”

“...you...wanted us down there?”  Steve raised his eyebrows, leaning to look at Will’s face.  

“No, I mean.  Whatever--you probably don’t want to--”

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, and leaned over the railing, calling down.  “This is supposed to be a slumber party, _cupcake-pie,_ wanna...party in the pillow fort with us?”

After a short pause, Billy leaned around the stairwell.  “What?”

“We’re sleeping in the fort in the living room, you’ll come next to me, right?”

“Word choices,” Billy stared up.  “Sure, yeah, whatever.  Wear something slinky, Harrington.”  He started balling up the comforter Steve had thrown down, dodging as Steve hucked a pillow at his head.  

Will had a little bounce in his step, grinning as he paced off in a weird diagonal pattern towards Steve’s room for the other set of bedding. _“Dustin_ said,” he raised his eyebrows, “If I wanna be _the Invisible Man,_ I should wear plaid in your room.”  

Steve drew his eyes away from the stairwell, and snorted.  “Yeah, that’s about right.”  He reached out and ruffled Will’s hair, and got batted away, and a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a couple more chapters, how many will depend on how long winded I get following my outlines--but they are OUTLINED, I know how it ends! XD We're getting there! 
> 
> So I lovelovelove hearing from people! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Do you like my new CHAPTER TITLES? Thank you, thank you for reading this far!
> 
> ALSO, I'm platypan on Tumblr and peterqpan on Pillowfort! Come wail to me about stories!


	8. ‘F*ck it, why do you have to leave.’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another sweet chapter before PLOT intrudes. There's slow-dancing, some honestly awkward discussions, a princess carry, and Billy's dad makes a move. Taking the risk of throwing up a chapter count again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ENDLESSLY to artlessclaybrainedflapdragon, stele3, sirsparklepants, and siriuslyrose for wading through all these chapters and commenting, Bavzel and Tbehartoo for beta-testing, and anyone reading this! 
> 
> Additional warnings in the end notes.

****Will placed his hand flat to the door of Steve’s room, and shoved dramatically.  “...wow, Dustin...Dustin was _not kidding,_ it is...plaid.”

Steve glanced around, and sighed, arms full of comforter.  “Yeah, it’s really plaid.  They hired an interior decorator, I guess.  Didn’t ask me.”  He shoved more pillows at Will, called down “Hey yo, Hargrove,” and dumped the other comforter over the railing after the first.  Billy scrambled out of the way.  

“Watch yourself, King Steve,” he looked up, and exchanged a grin with Will.  “The peasants might revolt when you’re snoring tonight.  Pitchforks and torches.”

“Will the Wise, my fine court wizard, would never!” Steve grabbed the pillows in one arm, and Will around the waist--he yelped--and trotted down the stairs.  

Billy was grimacing, head cocked, at Will’s giggles and kicking feet. _“‘Will the Wise’?_ What’s that, his--his nerd game name?”

“His D&D character,” Steve corrected, sitting Will’s feet on the floor, and avoiding his retaliatory smacking hands.

“Seriously?” Billy tossed something in the fridge with a clunk.  “You coulda been ‘Zarbok the Unendearing’ or ‘Magicmaster’ or ‘Savatage’.  You stuck with _William?_ Who the fuck wants to be a _William,_ if you could be somebody _else.”_ He stuck some rattly cardboard boxes labeled ‘lasagna noodles’ in the cupboard, and Steve for once salivated over something other than his lovely ex, or the school bully.  “Done.”

“Are you making _lasagna?!”_ he gasped, but Will cut him off.

 _“I_ like being a William,” Will grabbed the movie club box Steve’d left on the counter, and rattled it.  “When we built Castle Byers, Mom wanted to put a ‘Trespassers Will’ sign outside. I’m not _five.”_ He rolled his eyes, glanced between their blank faces, and sighed.  “It’s from Winnie the Pooh.  Piglet says his grandfather was Trespassers William.”

 _“Trespassers William,_ huh,” Steve grabbed the movie club box, tearing at the corner, and let his smile grow at Billy.

“No,” Billy frowned back.  “You’re not calling me anything to do with a _bear--”_

“It’s so _perfect,_ though,” Steve yanked at the box.  “Trespasser.”

“It’s Piglet,” Will stared between them.  “Actually.”

“Trespassers Billiam,” Steve snickered, yanking a side of the box away, and wrinkled his nose.  “...huh. Anybody wanna watch _The Smurfs and the Magic Flute?_ Or hey, they reissued _Snow White._ Jesus.  My mom’s hot secretary thinks _I’m_ five.”

“Your mom?” Will perked up.  

“Yeah,” Steve shrugged, trying to ignore the avid attention of various Williams.  “Do we need to explain where babies come from? _Again?”_

“Are you up for that?” Billy raised his eyebrows.  “You could barely handle it the first time.”

“...does _Hargrove_ need to explain where babies come from again?”

Billy smirked, and Will giggled.  “No, I--just--where is she?”

“Oh, uh.  She’s roommates with her really...hot...secretary--” he narrowed his eyes, then blinked.  “Wait, my--my _mom’s gay._ That’s definitely weird.”  Billy slid an arm around him, laughing into his shoulder.  “Uhhh, she’s in Boston, usually?  She, um, she travels a lot.”

“Why doesn’t she--” Will began, and Steve felt his jaw clench.  The kid must have noticed, because he stopped.

“You got a dad?” Billy leaned his chin on Steve’s shoulder.  

“He’s got his _own_ secretary,” Steve let himself lean back into him.  “I guess.”

Billy squeezed him.  “Where?” 

“Uh, guys--”

“You live here _alone,”_ Will’s eyes were huge.  “You’re all by yourself. _That’s_ why Billy can stay.”

Steve sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose.  “Okay, look, I’m still seventeen--”

“We’ll keep it quiet.”  Billy shifted against him, glancing around.  “Shit, Harrington, how long you been living on TV dinners?”

“Hey, I get Kentucky Fried chicken, sometimes.”  Steve squirmed, and Billy stepped back.  

“...the hell’d you do before you could drive.”  Billy stepped away, digging a beer out of the fridge.  

Steve snorted, cracking his neck.  “I took the _bus?_ I had a--” he waved his hand hip-high.  “Little kid bike, y’know, what the hell d’you think.”

“How--how old were--” Will’s eyes just kept getting wider, and Steve cut him off, swallowing around a raw feeling in his throat.

“Not everybody’s got your mom, Will,” he grabbed a chair in one hand, the bag of Christmas lights in the other, tossing them over his shoulder, and strode into the front room.  “Hoy. Buttfaces. How do we start. Let’s make this fort.”  

Will followed him out, Billy bringing up the rear with the sound of a crushed beer can tossed into the sink.  As Will dug clothespins out of one of his totes, Billy slid an arm around Steve, leaning in. “So. How hot _is_ your mom’s secretary,” he whispered, and Steve’s tight shoulders dropped as he barked a laugh.  

“She’s almost as old as my _mom,”_ he grinned, pulling the chair over and climbing on to reach the ceiling.  

“Just my type, you should give me her number.”  Billy grabbed his hand and kissed his knuckles as he walked by, and Steve stepped too far to the side.  The chair tottered, then slowly began to tip--like the _chair_ got a run-by smooching, Steve thought, rolling his eyes--and he had to shift his feet to balance it on two legs as he stepped down to the side rung, then to the floor as the chair thudded softly on its side behind him.  

He glanced around, head ducked, feeling like a silent movie comedian.  Both Williams were pink-cheeked and watching.  “Oh, fuck off.”  He put one foot on the rung of the chair to get it arcing upright as he stepped on the edge with the other, and Billy turned away, clearing his throat.  

“Did you _practice_ that?” Will asked, wide-eyed, as the chair settled back on four legs, and Steve cocked his head.  

“...falling...off a chair?  Why...why would I practice that.”

“It looks cool.”  Will watched as Steve rolled his eyes, grabbing the back of the chair and rocking it back to two legs while he balanced with one foot on the seat, one on the side rung.  Will clapped--and slid a glance at Billy. _“Billy_ really likes it.”

“Shut up, Will,” Billy stomped off to grab a blanket.  

“Of course my _trespasser_ likes watching me stumble around--” Steve rolled his eyes, and Will shook his head, opening his mouth, and sighed.  

“...you wouldn’t _fuck off_ from under my _window,_ shithead,” Billy threw a pillow at his head, and Steve took the hit and caught it, grinning over.  “The hell was I supposed to--”

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your mullet,” Steve snickered, and Billy grabbed pillows in both hands and launched an attack.  Will grabbed a couch pillow, forgetting the effect the size of it would have on his reflexes, and ran around waving it at both of them and missing entirely.  

They circled the front room in an infinite loop, supplying each other with thrown pillows, stances wide like they were playing one-on-one basketball.  Billy finally smacked Steve sprawling over the arm of the couch and knelt on the floor next to him, panting. “You _wanted_ me here.  You--you fucking--you came and _got me,_ don’t--”

Steve flailed an arm out, and grappled his shoulders close, talking into his curls.  “Yeah.  Yeah, you trespassed a few too many times, asshole.  Keeping you.”

“What,” Billy buried his face against Steve’s side.  “You’re not _keeping_ me, you’re--you’re releasing me with one of those radio collars.  Throw me in a truck, drop me in the mountains, hope to fucking god I don’t find my way back.”

Leaning his head back, Steve watched Will edge out of the room, pointing upstairs, and waved with his free hand.  His other hand teased at the hairspray in Billy’s curls. “What,” he had to clear his throat a couple of times to laugh.  “You--you saying you’re--domesticated.  Tame.  You want to--” 

“Fuck you,” Billy yanked away, standing up.  “Saying I’ll probably knock over your trash cans every night after work.”

“You can always _ring the doorbell--”_ Steve swung his legs to the floor to reach for him, and Will walked back in.  

“I got the sheets,” he said, breathless.  “They aren’t as heavy, it’s easier to tie them--”  He glanced between Steve and Billy, blushing.  

Billy accepted one, stepping up on the chair, frowned at it under his feet, and then squinted at Steve.  

“What,” Steve mouthed, and Billy stuck out his tongue and looked away, shaking his head.  He braced himself, feet as wide as they’d go on the chair, before stretching up to tie the corner of the sheet around the track lighting.  

Steve looked away from his toned stomach where his shirt rode up, cleared his throat, and started gathering other tall things--the metal tubing hatrack from the garage, and while he was there, bungee cords.  They shortly had a canopy wide and tall enough for--he stopped, glancing around for Billy, who was crouched with Will trying to untangle the Christmas lights.  

Steve stepped over, bent in a low bow, and kissed his stubbled cheek, as Will giggled.  “May I have this dance?”  

Billy turned a pink-cheeked glower on him, and Steve crouched, holding out his hand.  

“What are we waltzing to, your highness,” Billy thumped his shoulder into Steve’s, and Steve threw an arm around him to keep his balance.  

“We should get the lights up first,” Will tugged harder at his strand, face bright red.

“I could put on a princess cartoon--” Steve began, straight-faced, and Billy shoved him over, scrambling to his feet and stomping off to the garage, yelling back through the door.  

“You’re a sick fucker, Harrington!  You’re _diseased in the head!”_

Steve shot a grin at Will, who was leaning on the floor on one hand, cackling into the other.

When Billy returned, carrying a small suitcase and an armload of cassettes to dump in front of the stereo, Steve and Will were arranging the lights.  They zigzagged them between the hatrack and the chair supporting the other back corner, which lit most of the fort, and then Steve climbed back up and started twining them along its ceiling.  Will abandoned him to look through the cassettes.

“Do you have any Led Zeppelin?” 

Billy grinned at him, leaning in to unclasp the little suitcase, and Steve finished the fifth _and last_ strand to look over and see Will and Billy’s heads together, discussing music.  He switched off the overhead lights--forcing them to huddle closer to the stereo light--and crossed his arms, waiting for them to look up and see his fairy lights.

Billy smacked a cassette in, and crossed his arms at Will, who held up his fists, giggling.  “Next one’s _my_ turn.”  Billy rolled his eyes, and Steve shook his head, grinning, and moved the chair he’d used to stand on out of their blanket fort.  He dropped down to lean between them--and get an unasked-for lecture on, of all things, _metal bands who liked Lord of the Rings._ When Will paused to cover a yawn, Steve opened his mouth to rescue Billy, who promptly ejected the Led Zeppelin Will’d been explaining.  Billy popped in a tape labeled “Cirith Ungol,” which sounded, to Steve’s ears, like screaming.  

Will crawled across Steve’s lap to get to the case in fascination.  “That’s a pass on the way to Mordor--well, and the orc stronghold _in_ the pass--” 

“What,” Steve groaned.

“In the Lord of the Rings!  You’ve seen the _movies,_ Steve--”  Steve leaned against Billy’s shoulder, succumbing to his fate, as the two nerds pawed through the cassettes, talking about orcs and goblins.  Billy said something about the _Dark Tongue,_ and Steve snickered into his shoulder. 

“But you’ve never _read_ it,” Will yawned again, slumping between them, his shoulder digging into Steve’s chest, his head against Billy’s neck.  

“Tried the Two Towers once, couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on,” Billy grinned over his head at Steve, and switched out the tape for a more comprehensible one labeled “Attacker:  Battle at Helm’s Deep”.  

“You can’t start _there,”_ Will took that case too, blinking slowly at the lyrics “ _Vandalizing the countryside/Goblins march in fearless pride”._ “I want to hear _all_ of them,” he tipped himself forward to inspect the cassette case, covering another voluminous yawn.  “And then we can--we can start the book.”

“Yeah, no,” Steve leaned sideways to watch him rubbing his face.  “We can do that in the morning.”

Will squinted at him, unsubtly sliding another cassette around his body to Billy, who blinked wide eyes at Steve before clicking it in the player.  

Steve groaned as another guitar riff reverberated around the room.  “I’m gonna set it up so we can sleep,” he jerked his thumb towards the fort, and Billy scrambled up with him, displacing Will onto the floor.  He didn’t seem to notice.  

Steve started laying out the comforters, and arranging pillows, eventually realizing Billy had sat back on his heels, frowning around.

“Hey, Harrington,” he licked his teeth, grinning.  “Looks like a sex cave.”

Steve covered a loud snort.  “Shut up.”

“I think we could fit the king-size off that bed upstairs in here.”

Steve surveyed the grounds with new eyes, eyebrows raised as he nodded.  “I think you’re right.”  He stepped over and hauled Hargrove to his feet, pulling him close for a peck on the mouth, and holding him with their heads together.  Billy let his eyes close for a second, then jerked back, shooting a glance at Will, who was staring at the stereo, bouncing a little in place.

“He’s not even looking,” Billy hissed, and Steve bit his lips, stepping back.  Billy ran his fingers through his hair, staring at Steve, then turned on his heel and stomped away towards the stairs.  The electric guitar cut out as Steve followed.

When Steve walked in Billy’s room, he was lying on his back on the bare mattress, his curls a little wild where he’d run his hands through them.  “...sorry?” Steve tried.

“Doesn’t matter,” Billy shoved himself upright, yanking his t-shirt down.  “Kiss me all you like, you’re the one who fucking--who doesn’t want--”

“Wait, it’s not that I--”

“Look, _fuck you,”_ Billy stalked up and shoved him back.  “Get the other end of this _fucking_ mattress.”  

Steve ducked his head, and did.  As they took mincing steps on the multi-point turn out the doorway and into the bannister, familiar notes on a _familiar harmonica_ floated up the stairs, and Steve cracked up, dropping the mattress to lean against the bannister. _“William Whatever Hargrove,”_ he gasped, pushing the mattress just enough to feel it thud into Billy, “You listen to the _Beatles?”_

“...it was my mom’s,” Billy growled back, and Steve winced, picking his end of the mattress up again.  

“Shit, sorry...let’s just tip it over the bannister, we won’t make this turn.  We can balance it and then catch it, yeah?”  

Billy shrugged, but helped him balance it, and Steve squeezed his shoulder as he slid around him to stand on the stairs.  

“Serve you right if I drop it.”  Billy’s voice was hoarse. “Sled down over your corpse.”

“I think it’s a specific crime if you kill somebody you’re married to,” Steve bounced on his toes to catch the mattress as Billy flipped it towards him.  

“Shut up,” Billy sighed.

“Is it maricide?” Steve mused.  “Maritime? No, matricide?”

“You aren’t my _mother,”_ Billy shoved the mattress, and Steve staggered down the bottom steps.  “And _holding hands at the IHOP_ doesn’t make us _married.”_

“Think it does, we had witnesses--” Steve jogged backwards to the front door so Billy could get out of the stairwell, and they slid the mattress on its side into the front room.   Billy left Steve holding the mattress, then stopped, beckoning Steve over with raised eyebrows.  

The mattress thumped as Steve pushed it against the wall, sidling over slide an arm around Billy, and look at Will asleep, curled up in Steve’s plaid comforter.  His face was half under the entertainment system, hugging an armload of cassettes so one was partly in his mouth.  

Billy swore under his breath, and went to yank the blankets out of the fort and clear the floor.  Steve pulled some out, and piled them up, but when the next song started, Billy just stood in the center of the fort.  He had his fist pressed against his mouth, and his eyes closed tightly, and Steve dropped the pillow he was holding to go stand in front of him.  

“Hey,” he lifted his hands, remembered Billy’s earlier flailing, and lowered them.  “Do you--you okay?”

“Yeah.   Yeah, I’m good--”  He took a deep, shaky breath.  “The fuck are you--”

“Want me to turn it off?”

“Fuck.”  Billy rubbed his face.  “It’s--whatever. Doesn’t matter.  What’re you staring at, straight boy, aren’t you afraid I’ll try and slow dance?”

“Hey, I suggested it,” Steve grinned, twiddling his fingers as he reached out with both hands and grabbed Billy’s, then leaned close to whisper in his ear.  “Are we doing this or aren’t we?”

Billy groaned, leaning his face in Steve’s neck, but swayed along with _If I fell in love with you/would you promise to be true/and help me understand?_ “I’m gonna get hard, and you’re not,” he mumbled into the skin under Steve’s ear, and Steve snorted.

“Don’t count on it.”

 _“If I give my heart to you,”_ Billy sang along his breath warm against Steve’s ear, _“I must be sure/from the very start that you/would love me more than her--”_

Steve huffed a laugh into his curls, tucking his fingers, twined with Billy’s, in the back pockets of Billy’s jeans.  “I’ve _asked_ you out, asshole.  You threatened to kill me.” 

_“So I hope you see that I/would love to love you,”_ Billy pressed against him shoulder to hip, singing against his collarbone.  Steve could feel his grin. _“And that she will cry/when she learns we are two--”_

“Jesus, I didn’t realize this song was so pissed at my ex,” Steve dug his nails in the denim covering Billy’s butt, and Billy jerked closer, laughing, as the song switched to _And I love her._ He stumbled, and Steve slowed, pulling a hand free so Billy’s weren’t pinned awkwardly behind his back when he had Sudden Emotions.  

He listened to Billy’s slow breaths, running a hand up his spine.  “...that’s not my sweatshirt,” he lifted his head to squint at it. “Whose sweatshirt is that?”

Billy yanked his other hand free and slung both around Steve’s neck, laughing helplessly into his shoulder.  “I have my _own clothes,_ Harrington.”

Steve felt himself flushing.  “How was I supposed to know you owned shirts?” he whispered back.  “You don’t _fucking wear_ them.”

“I do _fucking wear_ them,” Billy lifted his head, breathing less than an inch from Steve’s mouth.  He smelled like beer, and chapstick, and toothpaste, and his eyes made Steve feel like a swimming pool was laughing at him.  “I’ve been wearing _yours,_ just ‘cause you keep...shoving me into them.”  He licked his lips.  

“...like...you’re still--days _later,”_ Steve stumbled over his words, sliding his hand up to curve it around Billy’s jaw, and feel his face get warmer with every second they swayed to _A love like ours/Could never die/As long as I/Have you near me._ His mouth and throat had gone dry somehow, and he swallowed, and didn’t slide his other hand through Billy’s curls.  “But--good--good to know you, y’know, you know how to--dress yourself. When--once you--get back to California.”

Billy stalled out, suddenly just a cement traffic barrier Steve was trying to dance with.  “What.”

“I mean.  I won’t--it’s not like--you’ll have to zip up your own sweatshirts,” Steve cleared his throat, swallowing again.  “Good. Good thing it’s warm there.”

“California,” Billy repeated.  He nodded, grinning, and yanked his arms back, shoving away from Steve’s shoulder.  “Right. You’re giving me _money_ to get the _hell_ out of your _fucking life._ How could I forget _that.”_

“...you _wanted_ a job, to leave town,” Steve staggered back.  “You _said_ you--”

“Yeah.  Thanks. That’s great, _Harrington.”_ Billy laughed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.  “I thought that was some of the shit you didn’t mean. How long’s _that_ gonna take.”

It was probably good, Steve reflected, how fast Billy could switch channels. _Apparently I need to be reminded:  he’s only here because it’s safe._ He’d _known_ Billy only wanted to get back to California, but it kinda stung sometimes, being disposable.  “A-a week, maybe two? I called the bank, but I’m--I’m a minor, so--”

“What’s going on?” The comforter rose with Will’s wide eyes underneath it, his face red where he’d hugged the cassettes, and Steve tried not to whine.

“My sweet boyfriend here,” Billy reached out and squeezed Steve’s shoulder, right at the bone.  Steve’s t-shirt was no protection from the grip of his blunt nails. “--he’s letting me have some money to move _home to California._ I--I can see all my _friends!_ I bet my _mom_ really misses me, _too,_ right, _honey?”_

“Your mom lives in California?” Will’s eyes widened.  “Wow, that _sucks._ That--that is so _goddamned_ far.”  He enunciated the swear carefully, and Steve resisted a snort.  “Unless your mom tries to keep you all--wrapped up in bubble wrap, like mine does, sometimes I--I mean--”

“She does not do _that,_ no,” Billy’s eyes were fixed on Steve’s.

Will’s eyes were flicking between them.  “You--you must be excited, to see her, but…what about you and...”  He fixed wide, shining eyes on Steve, who winced, both from guilt and Billy’s bruisingly-tight hold on his shoulder.

“Oh, of course my _beloved_ will _visit,”_ Billy yanked his hand away to fold his arms around himself.  He bared his teeth in a grin at Steve, and Steve swallowed.

“I would if you _wanted_ me to,” he muttered, rubbing his shoulder, and Billy narrowed his eyes at him.

“Of course you’ll visit,” Will stumbled out of his nest and hopped over on one leg, trying to disentangle himself from the comforter.  “Right?”

“Ye-yeah, of course,” Steve swallowed, his throat feeling like a dry riverbed.  “Maybe he’ll come back for the fair this summer. Or--or I could--take you and El and, uh,” he risked a glance at Billy, who’d stalked over to haul the mattress away from the wall and push it towards the fort.  “We could--road trip. Disneyland.” He dodged out of the fort as Billy rammed the mattress at him.

“Oh!”  Will blinked.  “That’s a good idea, the mattress, at home we don’t _have_ a bed that big.  You know what, we could use the couch cushions as walls.  Do--do you live near Disneyland?” He helped Billy lower the mattress.

“Don’t fucking live _anywhere,”_ Billy clambered back out.  “Apparently. I need a--a fucking--smoke.”  He grabbed Will’s head with both hands and messed up his hair, and Will giggled, batting at him, and then spent a few seconds trying to get it back out of his face as Billy slammed out the door to the deck.

“Shit,” Steve watched him stomp down the steps.  “Shit, shit shit. I--I gotta go--I think I said something--I think he thinks I want him out--”

“Okay,” Will bit his lips.  

“I really--I do _like_ him,” Steve groaned, scrabbling at his hair, and wishing it wasn’t true.  

 _“I_ know,” Will shrugged, grabbing the pile of sheets.

“Shit,” Steve reached to slap the pool lights on on the way out the door, then braced himself as the cold frosted down his windpipe on the first breath.  He coughed, ducking his face into his collar. _“Shit,_ shit, god _damn_ it.”  

“Fuck off, Harrington,” Billy’s voice sounded thick.  

Steve followed it around to the snowy chairs around the pool, and tipped the snow out of the closest.  “I don’t--I’m not trying to--I like you here.” He took a deep breath, dropping into the chair, and frowning over to see Billy’s suspicious eyes barely visible between his hair and his attempt to turtle into the sweatshirt.  

“Yeah, I know you’re _lonely,_ Harrington, shit.”  Billy raised his chin just enough to take a drag on his cigarette.  “‘Course you don’t _mind_ me.  You’re too afraid you’re _crazy_ to date.  Your old friends suck _balls._ Your _new_ best friend’s a fucking _\--toddler._ You’re so tired of this empty house you’re watching princess movies.  Probably nothing sounds better than some _fag_ hanging around just _\--leaning into you_ like you’re a fucking _flame.”_

“Shit, no,” Steve got out of his chair, and Billy held up a hand.

“Don’t _fucking_ touch me.  You don’t--you don’t want _all_ of this pile of--of-- _screw you.”_ he took another shaky drag on his his cigarette, and blew a ring.  “Don’t fucking touch me if you won’t kiss me, or let me just _\--christ.”_

“Sorry,” Steve swallowed.  “It’s not that I--”

“It’s okay around Will,” Billy turned away as much as he could, squirming with his legs curled in the chair.  “I know you aren’t actually gonna let me go any further with that. But if you aren’t--if I’m your fucking _pound puppy,_ stop fucking _romancing_ me, it’s--”

“Sorry,” Steve shivered, rubbing his arms.  “You’re--you’re so--” He tried to encapsulate the frustration of never knowing how to form his vague feelings into words, to someone who could apparently do it exhausted and shivering.

“What, _Steve,”_ Billy smiled up.  “Am I being too _complicated?_ Or is that too difficult a word for you?”

Steve stopped, and considered, feeling a bit like he’d been asked to stand in a grave and handed a shovel.  Or maybe smacked with it. “Sorry. I--I’ll go inside now.” Before he turned, he unzipped his sweatshirt, tucked it around Billy--who froze, mid-drag on his cigarette--and shoved his hands in his pockets to tromp back in the house.  

He’d almost made it to the door when Billy let out a hacking cough and roared _“Harrington!_ Take your _fucking sweatshirt_ back--I just _fucking said--”_

 

When he leaned into the fort, Will was piling up the comforters.  He frowned up. “We need a name. And a sign...where’s Billy?”

“I don’t think he’s gonna hear anything I say right now,” Steve shrugged, kicking the pile of pillows closer to the fort, and tossing them singly to Will.  “I mean I dunno what _to_ say, but I think if I stumble around with a bunch of bullshit right now, he’ll--” he frowned, suddenly annoyed.  “I bet he’d shove me in the pool.  There's not even _water_ in it.”

“Why’s he mad?” Will brushed his hands together theatrically, waving around their colorfully lit blanket cave.  “Lemme get my paper and markers--”

“Looks really comfy,” Steve pushed Will over backwards into the pillows, and flopped next to him, ducking away from a flailing arm.  He grabbed an armful of fluffiness, and buried his face, until he felt tiny sharp fingers prodding his side.  

“Steve,” Will whispered.  “Why’s Billy mad?”

After a long fight against the impulse to smother himself with the pillow, Steve lifted his head.  “...I don’t…” He groaned, kicking his feet. “I mean.  I _kinda_ know, like, he’s mad that I...he thinks...okay,” he folded his arms on a pillow, propping himself up to see Will’s intent face, “--Dad Hargrove is such a fucking--he’s a shithead, okay, he’s just--he’s completely _\--rargh.”_ He buried his face in his arms again.

“Yeah,” Will waited.

“So Billy keeps--he doesn’t--he doesn’t think he’s...like _-able,_ y’know, like--nobody could ever _like Billy Hargrove,_ to Billy, so--”

“He doesn’t believe you?” Will sat up, crossing his legs, the better to lean in.  

Steve sighed, rolling onto his back.  “I don’t--it’s like it _changes,_ he thinks I really want _Nancy,_ and I’m lying, and then he thinks I don’t want him at _all,_ but right after _that_ he thinks I want him to--” he stopped with his mouth hanging open, his cheeks heating like burners as he realized he’d almost mentioned _blow jobs_ to _Will Byers._ After a long pause, about the point Steve was thinking he really did need to breathe, at least, Will prodded him again.  

“He thinks you like him _sometimes?”_ Will squinted.

“Whenever I’m _mad,”_ Steve said carefully, “--he thinks I want him to do _...stuff,_ and I don’t know if he even wants to _do_ the--the _stuff.”_

Will squinted harder, cocking his head.  “What kinda _\--oh.”_ He cleared his throat, biting his lips. _“Stuff._ Uh.”

“I don’t wanna do _\--stuff--_ if he doesn’t even usually _\--ugh,”_ he pulled the pillow over his face again.

“Why...would he...I mean, don’t you believe he wants to--to do _\--stuff?”_ he squeaked the last word, hands steepled to hide some of his face.

“Uuuurgh,” Steve lifted his head.  “He just wants me less _...mad._ Like.  Like if your mom was upset already, and you took the trash out, you’d be doing it, like--”

“So she wouldn’t cry,” Will nodded, huge-eyed.  “Doing _\--stuff--_ is like _that?”_

“I don’t know!”  Steve flailed.  “Maybe!  For Billy Hargrove!”

Will tottered to his feet, staggering across the thick uneven layers of comforter and pillows, and grabbed his backpack.  “What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.”  Steve watched him pull out construction paper and markers.  “I don’t know what he _wants._ I think I do, but then I keep fucking up.”  

“You can’t just ask him?  Or--oh, is it like--” Will gripped his markers, frowning down.  “He just--tries to make _you_ happy?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighed.  “Or he tries to make me mad?  He’s always just--he does shit to piss me off, he was yelling at me for being dumb out there.  I’m not _stupid,_ he’s just _crazy.”_

Will nodded slowly.  “...what should we name the fort?”

Steve army-crawled over to look at the tapes.  “Uh, wasn’t this a place?”  He waved Cirith Ungol at Will, who wrinkled his nose.  

“A _bad_ place.  What about--”

“Trespassers Billiam,” Steve pointed, grinning.  “All trespassers with that name I toss in here.”

Will made a face, then grinned.  “You’re gonna make him mad again.”

“Uuuurgh,” Steve rolled to bury his face again.  

“Can’t you just...say you like him...even if he doesn’t do, um, _things?”_

“He’s leaving anyway,” Steve sighed.  “He thinks his mom hates him, but I bet his dad like--got full custody by _lying_ about her, or she’s hiding from him, or--I dunno.  It’ll work out.  He’s...he’s got somewhere to _fucking be.”_ He punched the pillow, twice, then grabbed it to cover his face.

“...that’s _...good,_ though, right?”  Will wouldn’t stop _talking,_ and Steve swallowed a couple times, before raising his head to press his thumb against the bridge of his nose.  

“Yeah.  It’s great.  Of course.  He doesn’t need all _this,_ he’s got somewhere to go.  If I had the money to g-lend him, he’d be halfway there now.  Cloud of--cloud of fucking dust.”

“...you...you could call him.  A lot. And, uh, and visit.” The mattress bounced as he shifted closer, and Steve forced out a laugh, sitting up.  

“Sorry.  Sorry.  You came for a sleepover, and I’m not any fun.”

“I’m having fun,” Will grimaced, “--not--not while you’re fighting, but.  This is fun.  You _told_ me it was a bad time.”

Steve snorted, combing the hair out of his face with his fingers where the pillow-hugging had messed it up.  He crawled to the side to fix the blankets.  

“You--you know,” Will watched him with wide, determined eyes, and Steve leaned away, “Um, you don’t have to be fun.  Not all the time.  Your friends will still like you if you aren’t fun.”

Steve almost laughed in his face, but reached over to mess his hair up again instead.  

“I _mean_ it!”  Will smacked at his hands.  “Real friends won’t--”

Steve swallowed back another laugh, and tossed a pillow at him.  “I’m glad you’ve got good friends, Will.”

“You have lots of friends!  You’ve got Billy, and Dustin, and--and Nancy--”

 _I shouldn’t take satisfaction in him running aground._ Steve let his smile widen.  “I’ve got friends when they _need something,_ okay?  I get the call when something dangerous is happening, or a kid needs someplace to go--” he waved around at Trespassers Billiam.  

“Wait,” Will held up his hands, “--no, that’s not--”

“--and I thought _he_ needed me, because--I mean, fuck it, anyway, he _doesn’t--_ shit, I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear this.  Fuck.”

“Steve!” Will smacked him in the face with a pillow, tears running down his cheeks.  

“Shit.”  Steve took a deep breath.  “Shit, Will, I’m sorry, I don’t care if you come over.  I didn’t mean that.”

Will smacked him again, and _again,_ sitting on his chest to aim properly, until Steve was curled up laughing, arms around his head.  “Take all that back, you do _too_ have friends!”  He smacked at Steve’s protective arms again.  

“Sure, kid,” he snickered, and got smacked again.  

“I-am-your-friend,” Will punctuated every word with another whack of the pillow. _“Dustin-_ is-your-friend.”  He panted, wiping his face on his sleeve.  “I--I think Billy really--really _likes_ you.  He got those photos away from me and slid them under the cassettes in his carrier case.  I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“...blackmail?” Steve suggested, and got walloped a few more times, before Will flopped forward over the pillow, groaning.  

“I’m tired and you’re dumb.”  He reached down and pinched Steve’s cheeks, hard, and Steve rolled to dump him off.  

“I thought a _real_ friend didn’t mind if I wasn’t fun.”

“Screw you,” Will mumbled, throwing the pillow at him, before clambering back upright, pointing at Steve’s face.  “You said it!  I’m a real friend!”

“Feel better?”  Steve grinned over, and got another pillow to the face.

“I do _now,_ yeah,” he sighed contentedly up at the Christmas lights.  “Also, I’m telling.”

“What?” 

“I’m telling _Dustin,_ and _Nancy,_ and--and your _boyfriend,_ and Mrs. _Williams--”_

“Holy god, please don’t,” Steve breathed. _“Please_ don’t tell my ex I was whining about her not liking me enough.”

“Mmmm.”  Will narrowed his eyes, and smacked him with another pillow.  “Okay, fine.  But I’m gonna _hint_ real hard.”

“Christ.”  Steve whacked him back with the pillow.  He wrinkled his nose.  “Leave it be, they’ll think I’m _clingy.”_

“Nancy already knows that,” Will rolled his eyes, and Steve felt his throat click.  

He rubbed his face, standing.  “Right.  Right.  She knows I’m--clingy.  She _said_ that?”

“Basically,” Will shrugged, and Steve nodded, taking a deep breath and blowing his cheeks out.  

“Great.  That’s--that’s really great.  Perfect.  Y’know the only reason _Billy_ likes me is I think I’m the first person who didn’t treat him like _shit--”_

“What?!” Will squeaked, but Steve cut him off, scrambling over the piles of bedding.

“Christ _fucking hell,_ did he _freeze_ out there?”  He loped to the wall to peer through the window.  “...should I go _get_ him?”

“...I could?  Do you want me to?”

 _“You,”_ Steve pointed, “--should be brushing your teeth and putting on--sleeping--things.  I’m gonna--” he pointed outside, took a deep breath, and blew it through his cheeks.  “...tell my dickhead boyfriend he’s great and I don’t want him to freeze to death.”

Will snickered.  “Maybe he doesn’t believe you because you sound so _romantic.”_

“Okay, you’re like nine, so fuck off,” Steve flicked his head, then ignored his detailed rebuttal, math excuses, and flung pillows.  

Will was still yelling “I’m _not nine!_ And I’m _still telling!”_ as Steve set his shoulders, grabbed the afghan Will had left on the couch, and huddled into it to brave the outdoors again.  

 

When he crept ineffectively around the corner of the house, the crunching of refrozen snow reverberating clear to the neighbors, Billy was still curled up in the plastic lawnchair.  All of him except his hair and eyes was covered by Steve’s sweatshirt. The whole _chair_ was shaking.

“Hey, dickhead,” Steve tried, hanging back a few feet.  “Maybe come inside before you freeze solid?”

Billy laughed.  It sounded wet.  “Th-think I’m-m already--”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve dropped the afghan over him, sliding one arm under his knees, and one around his shoulders.  Billy’s clothes were cold, and stiff to the touch, like a tarp.

“D-don’t you f-fucking _d-dare--”_

“Come on.”  Steve braced himself, and lifted with his knees, and Billy grabbed for him with both arms, stuttering profanity.  “Just taking you--inside _\--oof--_ jesus, maybe--go a little--easier on the bicep curls.”  All curled up, he was heavy as hell, but he still seemed _smaller,_ with his head tucked under Steve’s chin, and his boots in the air.

“Stop--stop this p-prince shit, p-put me down-n,” Billy shivered hard against him, laughing.  

“I could throw you over my shoulder like a fireman,” Steve grinned, hoping Will was in the front room to open the door.  “But I’m kinda afraid you’d crack in half--”

“You d-drop me,” Billy laughed against his neck, “--and I will c-crack _you_ in half--y-you will fucking _d-die,_ I will _f-fucking murd-der_ you--”

Steve went slow, both unworried and undoubting that he would, in fact, die. _And fair enough, if I drop him on his_ spine _down the stairs in the snow._ “I’d do it, y’know.  Date you.  I think you--do you--think I’m shitting you, when I say I’d take you out?  ‘Cause I _would,_ I’d fucking do it.”

“...fucking would n-not,” Billy muttered.  His fingers clenched in Steve’s shirt so tight it pinched.

Steve held him tighter, pretending to himself it was so he could see the stairs.  “I mean, if you weren’t leaving.”  

 _“Fffuck_ you,” Billy shuddered against his shoulder, in what could have been laughter, or cold.  

“I _would!_ We could--we could do the drive-in movie thing!”  Steve took a few deep breaths after climbing the stairs, and kicked the door lightly.  

“S-sit at the theater, r-room between us for _Jesus,”_ Billy huffed.

“Theaters are _dark,_ dipshit,” Steve squinted through the door, trying to see Will in the dim front room.  “You can get _up to shit_ in the back of a theater--”  He waggled his eyebrows, and Billy jerked in his arms.  

“...think I did fr-f _-fuck._ F-freeze solid,” he muttered.  “C-can’t even kick you.  ‘N my lips ‘re numb.”

“I’d bring you forget-me-nots. _Frosty.”_

“D-don’t want any ff-fucking _flowers,”_ Billy laughed hoarsely.  His shivering had slowed, bundled against Steve, but Steve was slowly going numb.  

He kicked the door again, trying not to hum ‘Frosty the dickhead’.  “Might just eat all the fancy chocolates and stare at you, then, like ‘Look at me, eating all the chocolate, you actual fucking prick.’”

“What the _f-fuck,”_ Billy burst out laughing, and rolled his head against Steve’s shoulder.  Despite his flush, his face was cold even through Steve’s t-shirt, but Steve remembered, and _didn’t_ pull him closer, or bury his face in the soft curls.  “You’re g-gonna _stare_ at me and s-slowly eat things?  Y-you’re _sure_ you don’t wanna b-blow job?”

Steve started cackling against the side of the door, looked down to see Billy waggling his tongue around, and lost it again.  “Shit.  Jesus.  Okay.  Stop that, Will’s coming.  How’re you doin’, asshole?”

Billy raised his eyebrows.  “D-dinner’s great, ma’am, c-could we get some more breadsticks--”

“Oh, shut up.”  

Will ran to the door, and beamed at them as Steve walked by--for all Billy’s griping, he didn’t try to get Steve to drop him.  When Steve _did_ set him on his feet, he staggered, started to tilt toward him again, and jerked back, stumbling off through the kitchen like an afghan-swathed grandmother zombie. 

“...we better get ready too,” Steve grinned at Will.

“...did you, uh, did you...fix him?”

“...I don’t think I can...fix it that fast, but,” Steve shook his arms out, wincing.  “God, he’s like carrying a--like a _stone statue,_ I need a crane or something--we’ll be right back down.”

Will yawned, grinning.

Billy was glaring up the stairs, leaning against the wall, and Steve slid an arm around him slow enough for him to pull away.  He didn’t. He was quiet while Steve hauled him up the stairs, and quiet when Steve tipped him onto the lid of the toilet and turned away to run the hot water.  The afghan flew by as Steve turned back, but Billy’s hands were shaking too hard to disentangle himself from Steve’s sweatshirt, let alone unzip his own.  He was still unnervingly passive as Steve pushed his hands aside and leaned in to unwrap him, and tug the undershirt over his head.  

“What the hell was that?” Steve asked, dropping to sit in front of him and yank on his boots.  “You were just gonna sit out there?”

“Just th-thinking.  Thought I might g-go home.”  Billy rubbed his hands together, and up his arms, keeping his gaze on the shower curtain.  “I mean it’s n-not like I haven’t run off before--”

“What, _no,”_ Steve grabbed his hand, and Billy yanked it back, thunking his elbow against the toilet.  

He grinned down.  “Whatcha g-gonna do, Ha-Harrington, lock me in the garage?”

“No!  No, why would--don’t--” Steve yanked at his other boot.  “Come on, dickface, your lips are blue.  At least get in the _shower.”_

Billy pushed himself upright, and Steve kept his eyes on Billy’s holey athletic socks at the sound of his jean zipper.  “F-figure I’d be out of your h-hair sooner.” 

“I want you _in_ my hair, _Hargrove--”_ Steve growled, smacking Billy’s leg, and ignoring Billy squirming around trying to get _out_ of his extremely fitted jeans.  He clapped his hand over his eyes.  “What d’you want from your room?  To wear?”

“...whatever, Ha-harrington,” Billy slurred, shivering, and Steve heard the shower stall open, and close.  

He slid out to get sweatpants, and change, then wandered back in--eyes on the floor--to sit on the toilet, and brush his teeth.  He crossed his legs, trying to get the words everybody else used to play well together in his head.  “Hargrove.”

“Yep,” came Billy’s voice, over the sound of a thorough soaping.  

“I don’t--” Steve leaned his elbows on his knees, and frowned at the suds on his toothbrush.  “I know I--I say stupid shit.  But--” he stuck his toothbrush back in his mouth, thinking as he thoroughly brushed his molars, then jumped as Billy smacked the inside of the shower door next to his head.  

“Fucking _christ,_ Harrington,” he growled.

“The hell d’you wanna hear?”  Steve leaned to spit in the sink, and rinse his brush, then glared over.  He bit his lips on a smile at the sight of naked Billy Hargrove, covered in suds, narrowing his eyes.  Steve jerked his head away, flushing.  

 _“You_ opened your fucking mouth when it’s got _nothing in it.”_ Billy smacked the glass again.  

“Agh,” Steve let his head fall back against the wall.  “Just--just _stay here,_ god _damn._ I’m not--you don’t--I’m not gonna be--” he waved a hand, then rubbed his face with it.  “‘M not gonna be _glad_ when you _leave.”_

For a long moment, there was only the sound of running water, and then the sound of bare feet again, and the snap of a plastic cap.  “...can’t leave you high and dry with Will, anyway,” Billy’s voice was muffled by the water.  

“Yes!  That too!”  Steve reached over and slapped _his_ side of the glass.  “What the _hell, Hargrove,_ you just gonna--just let him think I’d throw you _out_ if we _broke up?”_

“Maybe I got drunk and kicked your ass again, and you dropped me in a ditch outside of town,” Billy laughed, and Steve started to stare at him, then rolled his eyes and smacked the glass again.

“He wouldn’t believe that--”

“Might if I _did_ it,” Billy tapped the glass, and Steve frowned over, watching the water run down Billy’s shoulder and over his chest, and feeling the blood that wasn’t already in his face redirect to his crotch.

“Shut up--you look like a fucking _mermaid_ in there, you’re all--”

“All?” Billy’s grin widened.

 _“Wet,”_ Steve gritted his teeth, and Billy leaned close, and licked up a big swath of the glass.  Steve stood and pressed his face against the other side, and Billy stumbled back, cackling, as Steve made fish faces, inflating his cheeks with his lips pressed against the glass.  

Billy leaned back in, grabbing the top of the door, and the light refracted off the water in his eyelashes.  His curls were dripping down his face and collarbones, then down the edge of his hand as he tucked them behind his ear.  His grin looked like it was more at himself than anything else, and his eyes wouldn’t meet Steve’s.  

“...at least stay ‘til you graduate, Hargrove.”  He put his hands next to Billy’s on the top of the door, running his thumb over wet knuckles. _His bruises have finally healed, I can’t let him go.  Back there.  God._

Billy licked his lips, and Steve stared.  “...you sure you’re up for...all this, Harrington?” he swayed his pelvis at the glass, waggling his tongue, and Steve turned his head and laughed into his upstretched arm, feeling his dick take even more of an interest.  

He tried not to squirm in his jeans, turning his eyes back to Billy’s.  “Think I know what I’m getting into.” 

Billy stepped right up to the glass, leaning his forehead against it, and bit his lip in a grin.  “Yeah?”

Steve leaned his forehead against Billy’s, separated by the glass, and Billy closed his eyes for a long slow breath--before pushing away, and yanking his hands free of Steve’s.  

“Water’s gonna get cold,” he said hoarsely, sticking his face right up under the showerhead, and blowing his nose.

Steve bit his lips, opened his mouth, closed it, and blew through his cheeks.  “Uh. I _could_ just...tell him we broke up.  If--if you want, if it’s easier.”

The conditioner bottle bounced off the glass directly in front of Steve’s face, skittered around the floor, and nearly hit Billy’s foot. _“Fuck_ you, Harrington, are you _high,_ make up your _fucking mind--”_

“No, for real, I mean, we could just tell him.  If you don’t want m--to--just. Just say we can’t be togeth--we can’t keep it together ‘cause you’re leaving m--moving away.  We’re--we’ll stay friends, you’ll stay _here,_ but I couldn’t--I just can’t--”  Steve shut his eyes, running a hand through his hair.

“Oh, ‘cause _me leaving_ is really gonna break _your_ heart,” Billy snorted.

Steve grinned and nodded, eyes stinging, and forced himself to swallow.

“...nah.”  Billy turned to rinse, and Steve watched the water run down his spine.

 _I’m not even hard anymore,_ he realized--even how hot Billy looked showering wasn’t distracting enough from how empty the shower would look every time he walked in and remembered, and how echoey the house would be _\--again--_ without his snide comments about singing princesses, shoes lying everywhere, careful check-ins about hot chocolate, and the scent of his cologne on Steve’s pillow.  

“Let’s let him think we’ll exchange syrupy love letters.”  Billy shot a grin over, and Steve’s lungs seized.  

He cleared his throat again.  It didn’t help. “Fuck, yeah, yes, we can--loads of _\--total dumbshit_ poetry.  Stupid drawings on ‘em.  You’ll get a letter with a crunched up candy heart in it and be trying to figure out what it said without saying ‘yeah, your stupid candy arrived broke--’”

Billy finally turned off the water, laughing, and bent to squeeze the water out of his curls.  “You don’t need to _actually send_ any _goddamn letters,_ Harrington--”

 _Right, of course._ Steve backpedaled.  “Yeah, right.  I don’t have to, shit.  It’ll fuck with, like, you getting a girlfriend, or--”

“Why the _hell_ would _\--fine,_ send me _fucking letters,”_ Billy took a deep breath.  “I’ll fucking _\--woo you back,_ you _royal ass--”_

Steve laughed, holding up a towel as he stepped out, and Billy stepped in to lean against him.  Steve kept the towel between his hands and Billy’s wet shoulders, but squeezed him tightly, rubbing the terrycloth up and down.  Billy's earring was channeling drips of water down his collarbones, and Steve patted it down with a handful of towel, tucking his hair behind his ear.

Billy huffed a laugh against his shoulder, and drew back, back and neck still red from the shower, frowning at everything but Steve.  “Why the fuck--that afghan is the ugliest--pink _and_ brown _and_ orange with _green_ tassels?” 

Steve snickered, aware Billy’d find other normal not-asshole people the second he got away from his dad, but inexplicably pleased at the permission to send letters. _This is even worse,_ he told himself, firmly. _Instead of a clean break, now you’ll be waiting for weeks for a letter.  He’ll never even call with an address._ It wasn’t like he was any good at letters anyway.  Billy’d probably be subjected to bad diagrams of how they lost basketball games.  He grinned at the afghan, cheeks warm.  “Mrs. Williams made it.  She said she wanted it to be cheerful.”  

“It’s...bright.”  Billy raised his eyebrows, pulling on the sweatpants, and running his fingers through his curls as he patted at them with the towel.  He shivered.  

“...put something else on.”  Steve leaned back against the door, keeping his hands to himself.  “You almost froze to death earlier.  I’ve got an ugly as fuck afghan and I _will_ use it.”

Billy snorted, shrugging.  

“...you think, when you’re back in California…”

After a few seconds of silence, Billy parted the hair in his face to raise his eyebrows through it.

Steve leaned back against the door, sliding to sit against it.  It creaked.  He closed his eyes for a minute, then flailed his hands.  “Just--you think you can go a _few fucking days_ without--driving _drunk off your ass,_ or _freezing to death_ in a--a fucking _lawn chair?”_

“Maybe?” Billy shrugged, and Steve yanked another towel down and threw it at his butt.

“Come on, fuckhead--”

Billy crouched down to grin at him, tucking wet curls behind his ear, and Steve’s hand twitched toward a drip running along the edge of his jaw.  “You almost sound worried about me there, your right royal majesty--”

“I’m worried as hell!  What if I’d fallen asleep or something, _dingus?_ You coulda _died_ out there!”

 _“Dingus,”_ Billy bit his lip in a grin.  He was turning a little red across where he usually hid his freckles, and Steve wanted to grab him and shake him.

“Why do you think I _kidnapped_ you, I was _losing my shit_ thinking--”

“Does it count?  As kidnapping?” Billy dropped next to him on the floor, crossing his legs, and cocked his head.  “I mean, I climbed out that window on my own. _This_ time.”  He stuck his toothbrush in his mouth, and Steve buried his face in his hands.

“Oh my god, _twice.”_

Billy patted his head, getting up to spit in the sink.  

 

When they wandered down--sharing the afghan--and tiptoed through the kitchen towards  the fort, it was glowing from within with the rainbow of Christmas lights.  Will was on one edge of the mattress, out cold with his mouth hanging open.  

 _“Trespassers Billiam,”_ Billy mouthed, wrinkling his nose, and punched Steve in the shoulder.

Steve pointed to Billy, and then the middle of the mattress, and Billy shook his head, eyebrows raised.  Steve nodded, miming a shiver, and pointing at Billy again, then several times at the middle spot on the mattress, and Billy rolled his eyes, leaned his head on his hands and pretended to snore, then pointed at Steve, then himself, then the bed, and put his hand on his crotch.  He lifted it so it stuck out, widening his eyes at Steve, then pointed to the middle spot, then Will, and made a huge X of his arms, shaking his head.  

Steve was trying to keep his cackling silent, shaking his head, but he crawled in, holding the blankets up for Billy to situate himself at the edge opposite from Will.  He still felt chilly against Steve’s hands, so he pulled him close, and Billy made a weird noise that might have been a groan if it hadn’t been so high pitched, and clung to the edge of the mattress.

“Fine,” Steve whispered, letting go, and Billy yanked the covers over his head.  

Steve smacked a kiss against the lump under the plaid comforter, and Billy kicked back at him.

 

What felt like moments later, he awoke to Billy’s curls brushing his face as he pulled his arm from under Steve’s head, leaving a chill where Steve had apparently been using Billy’s warm weight instead of a blanket.  Steve squinted into the Christmas lights, listening to Billy trying to navigate in the dark and thud against the coffee table. His eyes started to drift shut again, but when he heard the fridge door open instead of the bathroom, he rubbed his face, muffled a groan into the pillow, and crawled out, hands low to intercept any malevolent furniture.  He heard a familiar pop and hiss, and sure enough, in the dim light from the stove hood, Billy was leaning over the sink shotgunning a beer. There was another on the counter.  

Steve waited _\--nothing like choking over a shotgunned beer--_ until Billy sat it in the sink, and folded his arms against the edge of the sink for a few slow breaths.  “You okay?”

Billy went perfectly still, watching Steve in the dark window over the sink.  His breath ratcheted up as Steve stepped closer, so he stopped, smacked a hand back to find the fridge, and leaned against it.  

Billy closed his eyes, lowering his head to rest on his arms again.  He was whispering something.

It was nearly as dark in the kitchen as outside, and Steve started to relax, squinting into the darkness, before he registered Billy’s shoulders shaking.  “Hey,” he tried.  “Hey.  Dickhead.  Sweetheart.  Asswipe.  Hey, hey,” he slid a hand over next to Billy’s elbow, and knocked his knuckles softly against the counter.  

Billy shook his head without lifting it, and grabbed a white-knuckled handful of his own curls.  

Steve bit his lip, but didn’t touch him, stepping close enough to lean in and hear the news that Billy was sorry he was a _fucking drunk rotten sack of shit._ “Hey, no,” he whispered over the stream of furious apologies.  “Hargrove.  Honeymustard.”  He risked his thumb brushing Billy’s elbow, and he went quiet--so quiet Steve was fairly sure he wasn’t breathing.  “Jesus,” Steve whispered.  “Come on, breathe, babe.  Fucking--cupcake, jellybean, come on, dipshit--” 

Billy shook harder, now silent, and Steve finally slid an arm between him and the sink--Billy’s knees bent, and he curled away against the lower cupboards, and Steve almost let him go before registering all the knobs and the oven handle he’d be slamming back into, and pushed him sideways against the smooth wood as carefully as he could.  Billy held his arms around his head, face contorted as he suppressed sobs. His wet face gleamed in the dim light, and Steve pulled him in to a careful hug.  

“Deep breaths, come on, shithead, jesus--breathe, babe--I scared the shit out of you, christ, breathe--”

Billy made a soft noise in his throat, finally taking an uneven breath against Steve’s neck, and Steve stroked his back. _God, not the time to crush him in a hug.  Later. I’ll squeeze him until he doesn’t want to leave._ The air in the kitchen was cold, and Steve could feel himself getting gooseflesh as he rocked them back and forth.  His legs started to ache in the awkward half-crouch. He kinda wished he’d worn a shirt to bed, feeling Billy’s tears run down his collarbones and collecting in the waistband of his sweatpants.  Billy’s back felt as cold as earlier as he stroked it, and cupped the back of Billy’s head to hold the constant mumbled “Sorry.  Sorry, shit. I’m sorry,”s against his shoulder.

When Billy finally lifted his head, he jerked away, staggering upright to the paper towels and juicily blowing his nose.  

Steve allowed himself to be drawn over by the hand clenched on the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Sorry,” Billy panted.  “Fuck.  Shit.  I didn’t--I didn’t get any of that, Harrington, I couldn’t--” he laughed, wiping his eyes, “--I’m too fucking stupid to understand words in my own language, sometimes.”

Steve reeled him back in.  It was hard to tell whose heart was pounding harder.  “Shit.  Jesus.  Welcome back.  Christ.”

“Missed whatever you yelled at me,” Billy laughed into his shoulder again, still shaking.  “T-too much of a fucking drunk to understand words.  Couldn’t get my ears to switch on.  Like I was fucking--underwater.  Tell me what to do again.”  He took a slow breath.  “I don’t hurt anywhere.  You throw me out finally?  Fucking--fucking getting drunk in here with your kid out there sleeping?  I can just--”

“Jesus, shut up.”  Steve buried his face in Billy’s curls, squeezing him, and Billy nodded, taking a shaky breath.  “Not fucking throwing you out.  I’m not even mad, babe--”

“You’re mad as hell,” Billy snickered, sniffling.  “You’re shaking--”

“Not mad at you,” Steve slid his hand up to rub the back of Billy’s neck.  “I’m not mad _at all_ at you.”

“...what now?”  Billy swallowed.  “You’ll get pissed again if I try and blow you.  Probably _been_ apologizing.  I fucking apologize _better_ now, is that right?”  He laughed.  “I thought.  Y’know, finally, this is the part where you grab my hair and slam my face into the counter.”

“You didn’t do anything, jesus.  I don’t give a shit if you wanna finish off my shitty beer.”

“I’m _shameful,”_ Billy snorted into his shoulder.  “I can’t stay sober for _one day_ to help a little kid build a pillow fort.  You should hate me even more now.”  He was giggling, whispering in Steve’s ear, and he wanted nothing so much as to shove away, but he yanked him closer.  

“Christ, shut up.  Stop--stop telling me I hate you, I _don’t.”_

“Fucking _scum.”_ Billy breathed against his ear, his warm lips brushing Steve’s neck.  “Throw me off those stairs.  Back out in the fucking snow.  Make a better ice sculpture than I do a human being--”

 _“Stop,”_ Steve hugged him closer, pressing their heads together so Billy didn’t _lick_ him.  “Sorry I scared the shit out of you.  Don’t flip your shit.  I shoulda waited.”

“...fuck, I got you all snotty again,” Billy swallowed, pulling away enough to grab another paper towel, and start dabbing at Steve’s chest.  “God, I’m disgusting.”

“Y’know,” Steve leaned back against the counter, as Billy pushed him back to wet the paper towel in the sink.  “You--you drink a lot, and yeah, you cry a shit ton--”

“Fuck you,” Billy muttered, running his fingers under the faucet to test the temperature.

“No, just, I mean--anybody would, right.  Your whole _life_ is bullshit.”  He jerked as Billy pressed the hot, wrung-out paper towel against his chest.  “I think you’re doing okay.”

“Just blew my lid because you _walked in the kitchen.”_ Billy wiped the hot towel along his collarbones, and Steve shivered, and tried to keep his train of thought.  

 “Yeah, but like.  That’s ‘cause something _happened,_ right.  You don’t just--”

“Man up and ask,” Billy growled, stalking back to the sink and wetting a new paper towel.  

Steve pushed himself up to sit on the counter.  “No, I don’t--I mean, I can guess, you don’t have to tell me anything.  I mean. You don’t _...want_ to, right--”

“Fuck no.” 

Steve took the paper towel when he wandered back over, lifting Billy’s chin to wipe under his eyes.  “Okay, then.”  Billy’s eyes widened and teared up again as Steve carefully patted along his moustache, and Steve yanked him close again, laughing into his hair.  “Christ.  Maybe if everyone wasn’t so _shitty_ to you, me being _normal_ wouldn’t set you off--”

“You are not normal,” Billy huffed a laugh against his chest.  “You are abnormal.  You are a fucking _mutant._ God.  I’m fucking _exhausted.”_

“We should get back to sleep,” Steve didn’t let go.  “...d’you need the other beer, first?”

Billy flinched.  

“Listen, I...used to, um, I dated Carol’s sister.  Couple years older--”

“Shit, I don’t care,” Billy slumped against him, his skin cool and still damp, and Steve kept rubbing his neck.

“No, I know, I just--” Steve grimaced.  “Uh, before she went to college, her mom was taking her on this trip for a couple weeks, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to--hide.  Y’know.  Things. So we said she had the flu.” 

“...mmm,” Billy slid his arms around Steve’s waist, yawning hot against his shirt.

“So, uh.  She came over and hugged a toilet for a few days, and--I mean, it sucked, no lie, but I don’t think you’re any worse than she was.”

Billy grunted, then lifted his head, squinting.  “...you’re offering to help me dry out?  Jesus, Steve.”

“If you want.  I’m good at calling people in sick,” he grinned, “--want me to get you some aspirin?”

“I guess,” Billy mumbled, dropping his head back to Steve’s shoulder, “...wait, _that’s_ why you’re friends with Tommy and Carol.  Carol’s _sister.”_

“I guess?” Steve shrugged.

 

After he chugged the second beer, Billy allowed himself to be hauled upstairs, and pushed him in the right direction a few times as he stumbled.  He swallowed the aspirin dry, then sighed and accepted the glass of water Steve shoved at him, dropping to sit on the floor.  He leaned against the bathtub, letting his eyes drift shut as he drank it.  Steve grabbed the glass, slapping his toothbrush in his hand, and Billy brandished it, glaring.  “...didn’t think you’d noticed,” he breathed, then winced.  “I mean--I musta been pretty fucking obvious--I know you saw me hiding the tequila behind the microwave.  When we were making bread.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Steve shrugged, outside the open bathroom door, his eyes on the window.  “But it’d be, y’know, _good,_ if you could stay sober driving west.”

“Depends on how I’m paying for it,” Billy snickered, and Steve frowned over, but then he shrugged.  “Sounds shitty, but.  Sure.  I guess.”

 

Steve kept his arm around Billy’s shoulder on the way down the stairs, and Billy leaned in to whisper “So what now, Harrington, do you rock me to sleep?”

“Don’t test me,” Steve whispered back. _Jesus, here it is, the part of the slumber party where he’s so tired everything’s hilarious._

“In your lap?” Billy grinned, and Steve barely resisted kissing his face.  

“Necessary part of the slumber party,” Steve whispered back, and Billy snorted.

“Never got invited.”  He thudded against Steve as they got near the mattress, knocking them both into it, and Steve ended with an armful of Billy Hargrove, trying to giggle silently, the two of them sprawled on top of the blankets.  Steve rocked him, whispering Rock-a-bye-baby in his ear, and getting a mouth full of earring, which made Billy laugh harder, strumming an air guitar along with Steve's mumbled lullaby rendition.  

Billy’s silent wheezes of laughter shook the mattress until Will mumbled in his sleep, and he finally just rolled them both sideways off the mound of blankets, curling into Steve and pulling the blanket over their heads.  It was hard for Steve to stop laughing, when every time he started to doze off, he could still feel the back pressed against him shaking with giggles.  

 

Will awakened them with _Fellowship of the Ring_ at _seven o’clock._ Steve squinted at the clock, and then smacked him with a pillow, but Billy waved.  “S’fine.  Jus’ sleep.”

“Nope!” Will clambered over and dropped his skinny butt on Billy’s back, which was half on Steve, and both older boys yelped.  “These books are _really long,_ guys, we gotta get reading.  I made a schedule--”

“I thought this fucking kid was cute,” Billy grabbed a pillow, trying to hide, and Steve held up a hand.  

“‘Nother hour, Will.  Just--just another hour.”  

 _“Fine,”_ Will groaned, flopping backwards across their legs, and Steve pulled Billy closer, trying not to think about sleeping alone.

 

When Billy _did_ consent to be awoken, he stumbled and grumbled his way to the kitchen, and Steve huddled tighter under the blankets.  

After a while expecting attack, he caught the smell of _bacon._ He sat up in bed, looking around at piles of blankets and pillows, then followed soft voices to the kitchen, where Will was sitting on the counter kicking his feet, and Billy was chopping something.  Steve waited until the blade of the knife wasn’t near anything, and pulled out a chair. “Smells _so good_ in here.”

“He says I’m Boromir,” Billy grinned over.  “I have no idea who that is, but--”

“He saves the Ringbearer and prevents Sauron from taking over the world, his mom’s gone, and his dad is a _shithead,”_ Will reported, and Billy cocked his head, nodding.  

“Uh, your majesty,” Billy turned to face Steve, wiping the knife, and sitting it back on the counter.  “Omelettes are almost ready.”

“We were gonna bring you breakfast in bed,” Will grinned, “--and read--”

“Eat first, jesus,” Billy rolled his eyes.  

“Really,” Steve stood, preparing to sneak over, and Billy pointed the spatula at him.  

“Siddown.”

Steve did.  When the omelette, bacon, and fried potatoes landed in front of him, he stared.  “Holy fuck, Hargrove, this looks like _restaurant_ food.”

“Yours does,” Billy handed over Will’s--somewhat smaller--selection, and pulled up a chair with his own, which had apparently tipped over and spilled most of its filling.  

Steve took a huge bite, and groaned happily.  “Oh my god, you asshole, this is amazing.  I love the--cheese, it’s melty--there’s _crunchy_ things!”  He took another bite, and Billy snickered, choking.  “And spicy things!” Steve gave him both thumbs up.  “Mm _hmmf!”_

Will nodded, wide-eyed.  “You cook better than my mom--” he leaned back to yell “Sorry, Mom!” at the ceiling, and grimaced at his plate, while Steve cackled, leaning to bump shoulders with Billy.  

“You don’t have to cook all the time, dude,” he shoveled in another bite.  “So damn _good,_ though--”

“You’ve never even seen the movies?  Steve has the movies.”  Will’s track switched back to _Lord of the Rings_ as though they’d never left.  

“My dad likes C. S. Lewis.”  Billy shrugged, watching Steve vacuum his omelette.  “I read Narnia.”

 _“Narnia,”_ Will took a big bite and chewed, crossing his arms, and Steve tried not to snort.

“They were friends, y’know,” Billy grinned over, “--C. S. Lewis and Tolkien.  C. S. Lewis wanted more religion in his books, he was a theologian--” 

Will blinked, wide-eyed, and Billy was in the middle of explaining what _that_ was, with phrases like _biblical inerrancy_ and referring to _discrepancies between the books of Genesis_ when Steve could not hold his laughter _in_ anymore.  He buried his face in his arms, cackling, and Billy shut up mid-sentence.  The knife on Steve’s plate scraped, and he lifted his head, wiping his eyes, to see Billy collecting the dishes.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to throw you off,” Steve snickered.  “Oh my god, I have such a--”

“I know it sounds dumb, I’m probably getting it wrong, you can shut the fuck up now.”  Billy cranked on the water, leaning against the sink.  “It--it was--I probably didn’t even understand it.”

“Shit, no, you were making sense, that’s why I was _laughing,”_ Steve balled up his napkin and tossed it at Billy’s butt.  “You see it, right, Will, here I am fucking--fucking _mooning_ over this curly brunette with _booksmarts.”_

Will blinked between them, and started giggling.  “You did make sense,” he beamed over. “I don’t know anything about that stuff--”

“See?  And he’s a toddler, if it made sense to a _toddler--”_

Will cackled, kicking Steve under the table.  “How come I keep getting _younger?”_

Steve grabbed Will’s napkin and threw that too, and Billy squinted at him.  “All this time you’ve been pretending you were _normal,_ and you’re _smart as hell,_ you asshole fuck.  I have a _type,_ oh my god.”  He buried his face in his arms again, laughing.  

“I was just saying what I read,” Billy shook his head, smiling tightly.  “I remembered some of it.  Don’t get your hopes up that I’m _\--different,_ I’m still Billy fucking Hargrove, and that’s--”

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Steve got up and slid his arms around him, reaching to turn off the water. _“I_ keep finding curly brunettes that are way too smart for me.  Long eyelashes and big eyes, _jesus.”_ Billy’s face was hot to the touch when Steve leaned in to kiss his freckles, then his mouth.  

“Augh,” Will flailed in the corner of Steve’s eye.  “Aaah! I don’t _want_ to know your _turn-ons,_ Steve!”

Steve pulled Billy closer, sliding his hand through the soft curls in question, and tucking his face against Billy’s ear--and Will’s chair groaned against the floor as he pushed it out from the table and fled to the front room.

“Let’s _read_ when you’re _ready,”_ he yelled over his shoulder, and Steve pulled back, clearing his throat, and turned on the water to wash the dishes.  

“Fucking chaperone coulda stuck around long enough for a _real_ kiss,” Billy stepped close and leaned his hot face against Steve’s shoulder, taking a deep breath.  “Well fucking played, he thinks you think I’m a _catch.”_

Steve bit his lips, then leaned to bump shoulders.  “You know you _are_ a catch, though--”

 _“Jesus_ fuck,” Billy shoved away, stalking back into the front room.  

Steve turned off the water and followed him out to find him face-down in a pillow, neck and ears red.  

 _“Finally,”_ Will groaned.

 

After breakfast, and _one_ chapter of _The Fellowship of the Ring,_ with many questions such as “What are _hobbits,”_ and “What do you _mean_ I missed the dragon,” Billy drove off to the auto-repair place, and Steve started the dishes.  Will picked up the phone on the third ring, when Steve yelled that he was up to his elbows in suds, and brought it in to hold to his ear.

“Hey, kid,” came Hopper’s voice, audible to both of them through the loud handset.

“Sheriff Hopper?”  Steve took a deep breath.  “Did--did something happen?”

Hopper sighed.  “Not yet.  But Neil Hargrove called.  He says there’s stuff missing from his house.  He’s considering pressing charges for robbery.”

“...what?” Steve tried.

“He’s accusing your boy Billy of robbing his house.”

“He--he just took--he took _socks._ Some sweatshirts.  His schoolbooks,” Steve breathed, and Hopper sighed again.

“Yeah, I figured.  But since Billy’s a minor, it’s sticky.  When’s he turn eighteen?”

“I--I don’t know--”

“Huh.  Well, we can keep Mr. Hargrove wading upstream with it--”

“But it’s _his stuff,”_ Steve prodded the melted cheese he was scrubbing, his brain watching film of Billy being loaded into a police car, and mug shots, and orange outfits, “--they’re--they’re just his _clothes--”_ Will was quiet, holding the phone up, and Steve grabbed the hand towel, drying off so he could take the phone, and pull Will’s head to rest against him.

“Yeah, son, I know.”

Steve flailed an arm, wanting to pace in a circle.  “He--he can borrow my clothes, we can give his clothes _back--”_

“You gonna buy him a new car, too?  Calm down, kid. Neil Hargrove won’t realize we’re giving him the runaround for a while.  Max said Billy’s leaving town anyway.  When?”

“He was--we thought he’d stay here.  Just until he graduated,” Steve could hear his voice getting a little high, and tried to swallow down the thickness in his throat.  

“Might want to speed that timeline up a bit.  We can keep the man chasing his tail--it’ll keep him busy for a while, but it’s gonna piss him off, eventually, and he’s--we don’t know what he’ll try then.  Might want to keep an eye on your boy, until you can get him out of town.”

“Shit,” Steve ruffled Will’s hair, dodging Will’s batting hands.  “I need to go, Hopper, he’s getting his car fixed.  Wait--do you, uh.”

Hopper waited on the line.  

“Uh,” Steve swallowed.  “You know when I asked you about Billy’s mom.  Um, do you--can I have her number?”

“...lemme look it up,” Hopper sighed.  “I’ll call back with it--”

“Don’t leave it as a message,” Steve cringed into the phone.  “He thinks she hates him, I just wanna talk to her--”

“Yeah, okay, kid.”  There were some rustling noises.  “I found it, you got a pen?” Steve wrote it in the magnet pad on the fridge, and folded it up in his pocket.  “You play it safe, Steve, and give me a call if you need anything.”

“If--if Mr. Hargrove comes?”

“Then you definitely give me a call, and don’t open the door.”

“Okay.  Okay.  Yeah.  Okay.  Thank you.  I gotta go.”  

“I can finish the dishes,” Will said in a small voice, once Steve had hung up.  

“Shit, thanks,” Steve squeezed his shoulder, and ran to pull on his shoes.  “We’ll be back soon.  Sorry.”

 

When Steve pulled up to the service place, they had the Camaro’s hood up, but Billy was nowhere to be seen.  Steve popped in the office and took care of the bill, sending up a little prayer that nobody receiving the bill’d look at the make and model of the car requiring a new battery, then accepted a paper cup of coffee, and stood out on the sidewalk.  He almost spilled it when he was suddenly _drug,_ Billy’s fist in his jacket, around the corner of the building.

Billy hauled him clear down by the dumpsters, in the cement-walled dead end between the car shop, a cinderblock fence, and what smelled like a neighboring pizza place.  “Harrington,” he unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket, and flattened it against his leg.  “I--I swung by the clinic first, they had my--”

“Hargrove, I need to talk to--”

“Shut up, shut up,” Billy put a hand over Steve’s mouth, then yanked it back.  “I’m--I’m talking, don’t--don’t pretend you can’t hear me.”

“It’s _important,_ dickface--”

 _“This_ is important,” Billy held his hands up, twitching towards Steve, then smacked the paper into his free hand.  “Not to you, but.  It’s--it’ll just take a sec, just--come on.”

“Yeah.”  Steve nodded, leaning against the wall next to the dumpster to watch Billy pacing around, flicking his lighter five times more than he should have needed to to light his cigarette, and swearing quietly into his cupped hands.  “Am I listening or reading--”

“I know this wasn’t--anything,” he waved his hand between them, smirking at the wall behind Steve.  “But I thought--if you thought--”

Steve snorted.  “My purty talkin’s rubbing off on you.”  He drained his cup, and tossed it behind him into the dumpster.

“Fucking read it.”  Billy leaned against the wall next to him, taking a long draw on his cigarette.

The paper was Billy’s test results for STDs, and Steve blinked, reading _“Negative.  Negative.  Negative.”_ in a long line.  

“If--just, if that’s why,” Billy laughed, blowing smoke in a long trail.  “I’m clean.  At least.  And you came, _your majesty,_ don’t pretend I was no good.  You _fucking liked it._ You liked my mouth.”  He flicked his tongue at Steve, but wouldn’t meet his eyes.  

“Jesus, B--Hargrove,” Steve folded it back up, his mouth stumbling as his brain started running like a hamster wheel. _Shit, shit, shit.  What--_

Billy snatched it back. _“Fuck_ you, fine, sorry I don’t have a fucking _cunt,_ my liege.  Tell me when to _clear out_ when you bring home all those _other bitches_ in the sea--” he shoved by, and Steve caught him around the waist, letting Billy’s momentum spin them around.  

“Shit, gimme a second, goddamn.  Hopper called, your--”  Billy’d gone rigid against him, watching his face, and Steve forced a smile.  “It’s okay, he’s got your back. For--for now, it’s fine.”

“The fuck did he say,” Billy shoved him back against the dumpster, folding the test results up, and tossing them over Steve’s shoulder.  

“Your dad’s...he’s making trouble.  You should--”  The refrain of _shit, shit, shit_ in his head was like a broken record.

 _“The fuck did he say, Harrington,”_ Billy leaned in close, blowing cigarette smoke that smelled like toothpaste.  

“He--he wants you arrested for theft,” Steve grimaced.  “Hopper said they’ll, uh, keep him chasing his tail?  But you should leave town _\--Hargrove--"_ Billy clenched a hand in Steve’s jacket, and slammed the other one into the dumpster, and Steve tried to protect his face, then scrambled to grab the fist that'd connected with the dumpster.  It'd made a loud bang, but he waggled Billy's gloved fingers, and he didn't wince. _Could be adrenaline, though--_ “Shit, hold on, Hargrove--”

“Just a dumpster, Harrington,” Billy grinned, shoving him off.  “--just fucking trash back here.  I'm just _thieving trash,_ right, it doesn’t _matter,_ let me _fucking--”_

“Wait, wait, wait, shit.” Steve grabbed him around the upper arms.  “Hold the fuck up, don’t break your hand.  Don't _punch the dumpster,_ christ.  Come back with me.  Come on.  We’ll go--we'll throw bottles, come on--"

Billy pulled himself into the shaking tension Steve remembered from first meeting him, slapping a smile on his face and allowing himself to be drawn back to Steve’s car.  “So I’m going to jail,” he laughed over, as Steve pulled away from the curb.  “For taking my shit.  That’s new, actually.  Used to be for assault.  Or I was gonna set myself on fire.”  

“What.”  Steve tried not to speed--the last thing he needed was Billy deciding he and the sheriff department needed to have a shootout at the OK Corral.  "And you're not, you're not going to jail, what are you--"

“Yeah, I shoved him back.  He said he’d have them try me as an adult.  For assault.  Adults can get the death penalty, y'know?  His word against mine.  Shit.” Billy let his head loll against the window, his breath coming fast through his clenched teeth.  “Adults get the electric chair.  I’m big, I’m strong, nobody’ll ever believe I didn’t swing at him.  It’s actually lethal injection here, I looked it up.”

“Hopper believes you,” Steve blinked to clear his eyes for driving, and flapped a hand over until he found Billy’s.  He squeezed it.  “He said he’ll give him the runaround until you get out of town.”

“Sure.  I’ve never fucking _talked_ to Hopper--” 

“He believes _me,_ then,” Steve swung around a turn.  “And I have a bat, babe.  Shit. Bi--dickhead.  We won't--he’s not _taking you_ anywhere.”

Billy was laughing over his verbal stumbling, but his breaths were still sounding punched out of him.  “He said I was gonna burn to death.  One of these times coming home drunk, if I didn’t go in the ravine, I was gonna--I’d spill some liquor, and drop a cigarette.  Burn to death in my car.”

“Christ,” Steve swallowed, listening to Billy try to force himself to breathe.  He was making these awful muted screaming noises between his teeth, trying to muffle them with the arm of his jacket.  

“Fucking inferno,” Billy whispered, and Steve squeezed his hand again, patting it uselessly.  

“Tell me about your dumb nerd music.  Goblins, and--” 

“Didn’t bring any,” Billy’s laugh sounded strangled, as he grinned over, but at least he wasn’t staring at his imagined death out the window.  

“What’s that sugar song you’re always singing.  What’s that about.”

“It’s--it’s _Def Leppard,”_ Billy swallowed, closing his eyes.  

“Almost there,” Steve told him, and kept asking about the band, and their other songs.  Billy was describing one of their music videos as they pulled up in the driveway, and Steve squeezed his shoulder.  “Okay, I’m gonna go get--we can throw bottles at trees, or something, okay?”

Billy snorted, letting his head fall back against the headrest.  “You don’t want me in there around Will.”

“I’m just going in the garage, we don’t need snow in the house.  I’ll grab you another jacket.”  At Billy’s smirk and nod, he dashed in, grabbed his ski jacket, found a crate, started loading it up with bottles, and saw his bright red toy bat leaning in with the skis.  He opened the door to the house and leaned in.  “Hey, Will? Everything’s fine, but we’re gonna go and just--scream at the woods--I guess--”

Will’s head popped around the doorway to the front room.  “Okay..?”

“Sorry,” Steve waved.  “We’ll be back soon.”

 

Billy was having a smoke, and Steve rolled his eyes, flumping the crate of bottles in the snow by his feet, and digging gloves out of the pockets of the jacket.  He grabbed the hand without a cigarette in it to tug a glove on to.  

“I’d think being from California, you’d be _more_ worried about the cold, not _less,”_ he growled, as Billy stuck the cigarette in his mouth and surrendered his other hand.  He was already pink-cheeked from the wind.  “Christ.  I hope you wear _sunscreen.”_

“Why, you wanna put it on me?” Billy allowed himself to be maneuvered into the coat, waggling his tongue.  

“That's all I can _do,_ apparently, I can't keep _anyone_ _safe.”_ Steve shoved the crate of bottles at him, and stalked off around the side of the house.  

“Uh.  Where’d...the toy bat come from?”  

Steve twirled it.  “Got it for me before I was old enough to join Little League.  Used to hit trees with it.  Doesn’t, y’know, vibrate your whole arm like a wood one.”

“That what that trophy was for?  Little League? By your bed.”

“Yee-up.”  

“You don’t still play?”

“Stuff happened.”  Steve led him over to the trees, and spun the bat around his hand to offer the handle.  Billy rolled his eyes, but took it.  

“What, I’m supposed to hit a tree?”

“Or throw bottles into that rock over the ditch.  Pretend it’s your dad. Pretend it’s--”

“I got something.”  Billy tromped through the snow over to a tree, and hit it.  

“Harder,” Steve coached, “--and call it a fuckhead.”  Billy grinned back at him, and shook his head, but faced up against it again.  

 

As Billy got into it, he got louder, and Steve looked over to see Ms. Williams’ face pressed against her window.  Billy didn’t notice him waving, too busy roaring profanities at a tree, so Steve jogged over to her house, stomping on the porch and blowing into his hands as she opened the door.  

“Sorry.”  He waved at the shuddering trunk.  “He’s, uh, there’s a lot going on, so I gave him my old plastic bat.”

She nodded slowly.  “Well, he doesn’t look like he needs any assistance.”

“Maybe I’ll go back later and cheer,” Steve nodded frowning over the porch railing.  “I just didn’t want you to think we were fighting.”

“You look tired, again,” she held out the bowl of strawberry-shaped candies, and he grabbed a handful.  Billy’d actually eaten one. _Maybe his tongue’s too sharp to mind candy shrapnel._ He crouched to hug the head of the nearest dog, and then frowned up.  “Ma’am, would you--”

She raised her eyebrows, and he bit his lips. 

“M-may I use your phone?”

She set him up at her little phone desk, with pencils, and a paper pad, and he dialed Billy’s mother.  He let it ring for several minutes, then hung up and let his head drop against the desk.

 

When Steve wandered back out, he had two mugs of hot cider, and Billy was starting to get slow and clumsy with the bat.  “Hey,” he held out the mug, and Billy squinted at it, then at him, panting.  

“Where’d...I didn’t buy cider.”  

Steve stepped closer, raising his eyebrows, and Billy took it, inhaling.  

“...this isn’t mix cider.  Where’d you even--” he frowned behind Steve, flushed, and put his hand up and waved.  

Steve swung around to see Ms. Williams waving in the window, and waved back.  “Figured I’d give you a minute.  Y’know, just in case my face was on any of those bottles.”

“What,” Billy laughed.  “Why--no.” 

“I dunno, you were pretty mad last night.”

“I wasn’t--ugh.”  He tossed the bat down to wrap both gloves around the mug of cider.  “...thanks for this.”

“Sure,” Steve reached over and brushed snow out of the hair around Billy’s ear, flicking his earring.  “Should get you a hat.”

“Nah,” Billy grinned.  “You can keep touching my hair.  I’m gonna make lasagna,” he took the last swig, and grabbed the bat, “--and then I think I can sit still.  Maybe.”

“Use it all you want,” Steve couldn’t fight back a huge grin.  “It helped?”

“Didn’t even need the bottles,” Billy shrugged, and Steve grabbed one and hucked it at the rock he’d pointed out in the ditch, sighing as it exploded in a shower of sparkles.  

“Might as well.  That one was my _math_ teacher who uses _essay_ questions.”  He grabbed another.  “And _Hawkins Labs.”_

Billy watched, mouth quirked, then grabbed one, frowned at it, biting his lips together, and threw it with a grunt of effort.  He took a shaky breath when it shattered, and Steve wondered who it had been aimed at, but just offered another.  Billy got through about half the crate before they were both laughing too hard, bent over.

“So,” Steve staggered, snickering, and Billy grabbed his jacket, steadying them both.  “You were _not_ in Little League.”

“Fuck you!  How the hell do I _keep missing--”_

“It’s a huge fuckin’ rock,” Steve wheezed, smacking his shoulder.  “It’s huge, how--we’re like twenty feet away, dude--do you need me to paint a target on there, or--”

“I could probably _lift_ it--I could throw _you_ at it--”  Billy slid an arm around Steve and hefted him, grinning, and Steve kicked, shoving at his shoulder, and discovering the appeal of muscles that could lift him one-handed.

“No!  No!  I’m sorry!” he cackled.  “I won’t make fun of your _shitty-as-hell aim!_ I promise--here, put me down.”  He stumbled in the snow as Billy sat him back on his feet, and turned away to cover his face. _Oh my god, would it be too obvious if I put SNOW on my face, I’m on FIRE, wait, I need to just--_ he let himself fall forward, flumping body-length in the snow. _Calm the fuck down, Steve, he’s leaving.  He’s leaving.  He’s leaving.  If you jumped him right now he’d probably think he owed you.  Just--just pushed him right down in the snow and yanked his pants open.  Kissed his lips until they were hot from our breath.  Christ._

“What the fuck,” Billy crouched next to him, prodding his shoulder.  

Steve lifted his face out of the snow enough to talk.  “I’m making a snow angel.”

“I think you’re doing it wrong,” Billy dropped next to him.  “You’re such a dork.  Can you breathe?”

“I’m fine,” Steve groaned.  “Kill me.”  He turned his head, opening his mouth, and Billy was sitting in the snow, watching him with pink cheeks and snow in his hair.  Steve put his face back in the snow, willing the hot tightness in his pants to subside, particularly where it was kinda squashed by a lump of snow.  “Christ,” he whispered, into his hands.

“If you’re so amazing, _you_ throw them,” Billy growled, punching his butt.

“I _will.”_ Steve tottered to his feet, arms numb, and regretting his decision to stick his dick in the snow, even if in _hindsight_ he couldn’t think of a better idea that didn’t involve Billy’s mouth _\--jesus, I need a long shower with the door locked._ He tried to push his hair out of his face with gloves on, and then just shook it.  “I’ll show you up. Gimme a bottle.”  

Billy got up, brushing himself off, eyebrows raised.  

“And name it.” 

“What?”  He frowned over.

“Fucking name it, or picture a face, or something.”

“Okay?”  Billy held one out, and Steve threw his best pitch into the mound of bottles that’d rolled unbroken from either side of the rock.  The crash sent some birds flying up from the surrounding trees, and Billy burst out laughing, wide-eyed.  “Holy shit.”

Steve accepted the last couple, tagging an outlier, then waggling the last one.  “This one’s just a ‘Fuck it, why do you have to leave.’”

Billy blinked at him, watched it shatter, and ducked his head.  He took a deep breath, tucking his hair behind his ear.

Steve slung an arm around him.  “Come on, dickweed. Let’s go make lasagna.  Tell me what to do.”  

“Fuck no,” Billy leaned into him, glancing over with a small grin.  “I’ll tell _Will_ what to do with the food. _You_ can read to us about goblins.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Billy's alcohol abuse finally gets talked about, and his dad tries to mess with him again through Hopper, but Hopper isn't having it. Billy has a panic attack. (If there's anything you think I should warn about in this or any other chapter, let me know! I'm forgetful but I will fix things if you tell me!_
> 
> So I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! Feel free to tell me these boys are dumb, I know, I know they are, it's not entirely their fault but I do agree. XD
> 
> ALSO, I'm platypan on Tumblr and peterqpan on Pillowfort! Come wail to me about stories!


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